


A Novel Romance

by EventHorizon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, First Meetings, Greg the Film Star, M/M, Mycroft the Mystery Writer, and a wealth of other firsts, mystrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-02-24 04:16:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 62
Words: 296,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13205778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EventHorizon/pseuds/EventHorizon
Summary: Mycroft Holmes is a successful, yet reclusive, mystery writer whose books have topped bestseller lists for years.  Mycroft’s agent, Anthea, nearly had to resort to torture to persuade the writer to allow a studio the rights to film one of his books and he only agreed after a section was added to the contract that gave him final say on the choice of actors to play the detective in his novel.  The studio wants the highly profitable and extremely sexy Greg Lestrade for the role, but Mycroft isn’t happy with the choice, since Greg’s films don't fit the more cerebral tone of the novel being filmed.Greg, however, is desperate for the role, as he’s wanted to break out of the pigeonhole he’s been confined to, acting wise, and truly get the chance to show his skills as a serious actor.  The studio finally pulls Greg from a publicity tour for his latest film and sends him to Mycroft’s remote country home to do some persuading.  Once there, after getting to know the secretive, brilliant and slightly-eccentric Mycroft Holmes, Greg isn’t certain which ranks higher on his persuading list - him getting a role he dearly wants or him getting a man he dearly wants.  One of those however, might be winning by a nose…





	1. Chapter 1

Anthea congratulated herself for taking a headache tablet _before_ meeting with her client because, no matter how greatly she had hoped otherwise, she had firm expectations about the tone and direction of this meeting, all of which were coming true.  _And_ , all of which could give a headache to a headless baby doll.  As the agent-slash-manager for the illustrious mystery writer Mycroft Holmes, she had labored long and hard to get the stubborn tit to consent to one of his novels being turned into a film and that long and hard labor had been necessary because said stubborn tit thought the idea was as good a one as swallowing raw sewerage.  Something that was still leaps and bounds above what he thought of the _actor_ the studio wanted for their leading man…

      “What possible reason could you have against him for the role?”

      “I would think the reason would be blindingly apparent.”

      “Not to a sane person!”

      “As you have oft proclaimed, I _am_ insane.”

      “Funny.  Or not, because I do think there’s something wrong in that head of yours but, since it keeps turning out brilliant novels to set the mystery world on fire, I really don’t care about that bit of looniness.  _This_ looniness, however, I _do_ care about, because I cannot, for the life of me, imagine what you have against him.  He’s the right age, can manage the look you envision for your protagonist, has talent…”

      “On the latter point, especially, we disagree.  Profoundly”

      “You genuinely think he’s not a talented actor?”

      “I have browsed through the various samples of his work and they are the basest sort of drivel.”

      “Drivel that’s made hundreds of millions at the box office.”

      “The ignorant masses do enjoy their drivel and will gladly pay for large bowls of it spooned into their drooling mouths.”

True, but since that didn’t help Anthea’s argument, she declined to make her agreement audible.

      “A lot of those ignorant masses also buy your novels, might I point out, so maybe they’re not precisely as ignorant as you want to believe.  For fun, though, let’s play a ‘do you remember’ game, what say?  Do you, Mycroft Pettifogger Holmes, remember how much money your books on political history added to your coffers?  I seem to remember a very pointed conversation between you and my father about your imminent eviction from your flat, your brother being pulled from college for non-payment of fees and what strategy you should follow to prevent those pesky sorts of things from happening.”

It was the lowest of low blows, and Anthea knew it, but she also knew it was the truth and, when her most eccentric client needed the truth, she wasn’t afraid to give it.  Mycroft had a phenomenal mind and a true talent for writing, but until the segue into _mystery_ writing, he’d amassed to his name the sum of several highly-regarded academic tomes and a below-average bodyweight since he could scarcely keep himself fed on the profits from them, given the number of people who appreciated detailed and incisive treatments of the government of ancient Assyria or some other faraway land could happily sit around a table at her favorite pub.  A small table, at that.  Her father had been nothing short of blunt about the situation and it, ultimately, was exactly what Mycroft needed to move forward, so that was the model she continued when she took over the firm.  That didn’t mean it was easy though, especially when she could see the hurt in Mycroft’s eyes.

      “Is this the point where I am I supposed to say ‘touche?’ “

      “No, it’s the point where you remember that not every talented person can simply follow their muse wherever it may take them.  They still have to eat, pay rent and all the other things that keep body and soul together.”

      “However, as you have indicated, these dreadful affronts to cinema have made outlandish amounts of money.  I would expect that this Lestrade person would be richly rewarded for this contribution to the studios’ accounts and could follow his muse if it chose to go to Antarctica.”

      “Yeah, he’s rich.  So are you.  Remind me how many non-fiction titles you’ve written lately?”

      “That is an utterly different thing.”

      “No, it’s not.  I do suspect you’ll write those sorts of books, now and again, someday but you’d probably see about the same level of sales as your original foray into that area and the taxes on this house, as well as your brother’s lunacy… we’d have to look long and hard at your investments to see if they’d keep you afloat if you decided to go in that direction permanently.

      “Pfft.”

      “Very articulate.  Truly, I’m overwhelmed by the complexity of your verbiage.  Besides, you _like_ writing mysteries and, I suspect, Greg Lestrade enjoys the sorts of films he makes now, too.  But, it’s not all he’s done.  Did you even look beyond his more recent projects?  Lestrade has stage work to his credit and some well-regarded independent films in his early days.”

      “Which fell to the wayside when fame and fortune beckoned.”

      “Kettle – you’re black.”

      “Pish tosh.”

When Mycroft began to fall into a recursive rhetorical pattern, it usually meant he was simply spinning words to hide what he truly wanted to say, something Anthea knew from long and painful experience.

      “What’s… what is the real problem, Mycroft?  I know you’re not entirely happy with the idea of this film…”

      “I _abhor_ the idea.”

      “… fine, you abhor the idea, but you seem to have a _special_ level of abhorrence for Greg Lestrade.”

      “That is untrue.  I simply… yes, I may have turned away from my original inspirations for writing, however, that does not mean I look upon my more profitable work with any less a doting eye.  It is important to me… it matters more than I can express.  From naught but my own thoughts I create people, realities where, before, there was nothing but the empty page.  I am not ashamed to confess that I treasure my work, I take no small amount pride in it and it is it wrong that I wish to protect it from… the besmirching effects of the so-called entertainment industry?  My work inspires the minds of those who read it, I have countless letters and messages as testament to that fact and that is, to me, the apex of possible praise I could receive. My work inspires thinking, actual thinking.  Why would I, for any reason, want to turn that into insipid pablum for the intellectually lazy?  To denigrate my work, debase it… the insult both to me and my readers would be crippling.”

Anthea sighed, both from the vehemence of Mycroft words and that he had not deviated from his mindset one whit since she went full-out to get him to accept this film pitch.  He had fiercely resisted every previous effort for a television or film treatment of any of his novels and had only relented this single time since the film studio making the offer had, under their umbrella, a division that made smaller, more intellectual or artistic films that her client genuinely enjoyed.   Part of the contract was that the film would be produced under their watchful eye, though marketed and distributed by the parent company to maximize its audience.

However, the current sticking point was the clearly stipulated clause in the film-rights contract that Mycroft had final say on the actor to portray the lead, which was one of Mycroft’s most popular protagonists.  The studio had very firm ideas about who should have the role and Mycroft had firm ideas that their firm idea was utter shite.  She _would_ keep trying to convince her client that he was being daft, as well as encourage the studio to move on to another candidate her client found more suitable, but this was an immovable object meets unstoppable force situation and she was the one being crushed in the middle.

      “Nobody wants you to debase or denigrate your work, Mycroft.  If anyone knows how important your work is to you, it’s me and I would never allow that.  The contract we got for you is the best I’ve ever seen to ensure the film stays true to both the letter and spirit of your book and… I don’t think Lestrade is going to ruin that.  Not in any manner.”

      “The man can do little but race about firing guns or bedding buxom blondes!  Oh, and let us not forget, battle space aliens or act the fool for some nauseating bit of romantic fluff that should be outlawed like anthrax.”

      “He’s been in a fairly diverse body of films and, yes, I will admit they tend to be blockbusters and not the little esoteric productions you like that most people can scarcely follow since it’s all archaic references, triple-meaning imagery and communication being mostly accomplished through microexpressions and interpretive dance.  That being said, your work would _not_ be well-served by ghostly legions of Grim Reapers performing a ballet, so maybe we should try something a bit different.”

      “This Lestrade person has not portrayed a single character of intellect in his entire career!”

      “Not your level of intellect, no, but since the number of people in your category can be counted on one hand with fingers left over, that’s not something to damn him over.”

      “Oh, there shall be damning, and it shall be mighty.”

Anthea rolled her eyes and decided it was best to let this drop for now and attack it fresh tomorrow.  The mole was entrenched in his hole and not even dynamite would be able to extract him.  And, she’d completely forgotten to bring his favorite chocolates to this meeting.  They could usually be counted on to nudge him a few inches out of his hole to feel some sunshine on his face.  Which was something she actually wasn’t certain he’d voluntarily done in years.  Sleep all day and work all night had been his pattern as long as she’d known him, and moles didn’t change their spots any more than leopards.  If he didn’t have to occasionally make himself present to receive an award, which took weeks of convincing, she doubted his skin would ever feel the touch of the sunshine.

So, chocolates tomorrow and maybe a new pen.  He did prize his writing-utensil collection, though he wrote on a computer, and her connections should be able to ferret out something especially tantalizing by tomorrow night.  At this point, she was not above using outright manipulation and bribery to see this deal sealed.  It was too important, even though His Majesty couldn’t see that.  His fans were dying for a film treatment of his books and the additional exposure would being him a _new_ legion of fans to his books.  And, more books sold meant more money, not only for him but for the various causes he supported, which he took almost as seriously as his writing.  Shit on a sharp stick!… she was definitely off her game tonight, because she hadn’t raised that particular point once!  And a powerful point it could be, when leveraged properly.  Absolutely time to regroup and attack on a new front tomorrow.  Of course, she had to phone the studio tonight and report on her progress, but… she was nothing if not talented at saying a lot while saying little at the same time…


	2. Chapter 2

_ I love you, Greg! _

_ Look this way, Greg! _

_ You’re amazing, Greg! _

_ Marry me, Greg! _

_ Just one quote, Mr. Lestrade! _

Greg kept his smile larger and brighter than the hot Los Angeles sun he was sweltering under as he waved to the crowd of fans and reporters, making certain to stay clearly in front of the display for his new film as the studio press agent had reminded him to do.  This was _not_ his favorite part of new film projects, not in the slightest.  Yes, he realized the importance of publicity and, yes, he realized that it was part and parcel of the enormous fees he received for his work that he play the dancing monkey for the studio press battalion… it was just such bollocks!

Three interviews before breakfast, one during breakfast, a photo shoot for an entertainment magazine after that, then here for a special screening of his new film that was prefaced by a few additional brief interviews and photo opportunities… he wasn’t that interesting a person!  Fortunately, nobody seemed to care that he pretty much said the same things over and over for each interview, all of which was previously scripted and evaluated by the studio people and the photo shoots simply required him to follow whatever directions the photographer gave, which were also evaluated and negotiated by the studio.  Only now and again did he luck into an interviewer or photographer who went off script and interacted with him more as a person than a studio asset.  Those were the times he actually had a bit of fun, always followed by tut tutting and browbeating by studio drones who were terrified any unapproved statement or pose would somehow come back to bite them in the arse.

But, for now, he had to continue standing here looking, waving like an animatronic Disney figure and talking into whatever microphone was pushed into his face.  His instructions had been most specific – smile, wave, speak, smile more, stay in front of the display.  Of course, those instructions were easy to forget when he saw was a kid in the crowd, dressed as one of the characters he’d played in another film or sporting a handmade pair of his trademark sunglasses, which always made his heart grow ten-fold in size.  Then the film display could fucking take care of itself while he signed something or took a photo and spent a moment talking with these little joys.

Who were his favorite, in many ways.  They didn’t see his films because he was handsome or sexy, something _he_ never particularly saw but each to their own taste, or only because they liked the action, adventure and a good laugh, but because he’d made a character real for them.  He helped tell a story that meant something beyond the special effects or car chases.  It was why he’d become an actor, really.  To express himself creatively and bring the heart and soul of a story to life.  Challenge his ability to step beyond his skin and inhabit a new one so successfully that he, himself, was no longer there.  The littlest fans reminded him of that and he adored them for it.  And, of course, he adored the shifty fucker arriving on scene with his usual ‘why the fuck is this my life’ expression on his miserable face who did his bit to keep the films coming for those little fans to enjoy.

      “Anderson, you ugly bastard.  Why are out here in the sunshine, you ghoul, when… oh, did the studio call?”

Which was a fairly ongoing thing as ‘the studio’ comprised a scandalous number of people who might have claims on his time, but there was one call he’d been waiting for and the look on his manager’s face gave him two answers at once.  Yes, ‘the’ call had been made and, no, the news wasn’t good.

      “He still won’t agree.”

      “Fuck!  What’s wrong with that bastard?  Does he… I know I don’t know him, but did I do something to him in a previous life?  Shit on his cat or something?”

      “I think a cat would move if you tried to take a shit on them.  Or turn your arse into bloody strips of agony for your troubles.”

      “There’s a place you can shove your bit of analysis and it _would_ be agony when you tried to push it back out.”

      “Save your testiness for someone who’s not trying to get this to work for you and actually has a logical, analytical mind to tear your cat-shitting arguments into shreds.  Like the cat would your hairy arse.”

      “It’s not hairy. And it’s been on-screen enough for me to provide loads of evidence in my favor.”

      “Don’t remind me.  I have to sit through your films far too often, not to mention see you on set during filming, and still bear the mental and emotional scars.”

      “Oh ha ha.  But… jokes aside, I need this, mate.  I _need_ this film.”

Anderson sighed and nodded, since they’d had this conversation more than once since the studio broached the idea, one that had Greg shouting over the phone that he’d do it, before a word of contract negotiation had been spoken.  Fortunately, Greg had been shouting at him so, if the deal was ever sealed, it wouldn’t be for peanuts with three other peanut-wage films thrown in for good measure.

      “I know.  That’s why I’m still working to get you signed.  And, in truth, the studio wants this nearly as badly as you do.  You _were_ their first choice and they see your casting as the magical unicorn that will bridge the film between the small, intellectual-film audience and the mainstream.  This project could hit multiple demographics with the right lead and they think that’s you.”

      “But this Holmes bastard doesn’t agree.”

      “No, he doesn’t.  He’s not happy with your work and thinks you’re wrong for the role.  That you won’t be able to portray his character the way he was written, turn him into some gun-waving, snark-spewing berk and he’s holding firm.”

      “And his word is law.”

      “For that role, yes.  And the studio doesn’t want to play hard with him because he can yank their rights over this.  I have to tip my hat to his representation… she doesn’t fuck around and the studio is balls over a barrel until he’s happy.”

      “What can we do to _make_ him happy?”

      “I have no idea.  Build a time machine so you can start your career over from scratch?”

      “Don’t think I haven’t dabbled with that idea.  More than once, over the years.”

      “Yeah… I know.  And I _am_ trying, Greg.  The studio heads would take mine off with an axe if they learned of it, but I scheduled a lunch meeting with Holmes’s agent for the day after tomorrow and…”

      “Brilliant!  I’ll wear my nicest…”

      “I don’t care what you’re wearing because you’re not going.  This is a behind-the-berks’-backs meeting where, hopefully, I can get some off-the-record information that will help your case.  Your being there won’t make that happen.  And, no!  Close your mouth about you being charming or better able to plead your case or anything that teeny brain of yours is thinking would be a brilliant addition to the conversation.  This is one of those things better done without the talent involved.  She won’t speak as candidly if you’re sitting at the table any more than I would if her bloke was joining us.”

Greg huffed a frustrated sigh, but he suspected Anderson was right.  Actors had their own candid conversations when their agents and managers weren’t there to hear and the last thing he wanted to was scuttle any chance he had of getting this role.  It was too important to him.  He’d waited desperately for one real acting role to come his way, one chance to show people he was more than a money-making machine… this was that chance.  He could feel it in his bones and if he lost it, who knows how long it would be before he saw another?  If he _ever_ saw another, which, at his age, wasn’t highly likely.

      “Ok… ok, I see your point.  Day after tomorrow, you said?”

      “Yeah, I’ll fly to London tomorrow and do a bit of asking about on my own before I talk to her.”

      “Alright… anything I can do before then, just let me know.  Copies of my films, reviews, I could probably get testimonials from various directors I’ve worked with, on short notice, if I had to.  if anything crosses your mind, tell me and I’ll see it done.”

Something Anderson didn’t doubt in the slightest.  Greg would make himself loony trying to pull together whatever material he could to further present him as the right candidate for Diogenes Bell, the complex, yet brilliant, detective that was the protagonist for one of Mycroft Holmes most popular series of novels.  The character was a rich one, extremely layered and nuanced, just the sort of role Greg had been aching to land, but the studios never offered.  This time, the offer was not only being made, but being fought for, so the opportunity was more than a golden one.  It was a diamond-studded, pure platinum opportunity and if Greg lost this part… it would crush him.

      “I will, Greg, I promise.  I get the sense that this Holmes fellow wants someone more serious and skilled as an actor, so I’m going to do my best to emphasize your early career, when you had more chances to really show how talented an actor you actually are, and, further, talk about how hard it is for an average, ugly, fairly smelly chap like you to portray the interesting, suave, handsome men Holmes might see now on the screen.  You have to be an _amazing_ actor to pull of something like that.”

Greg laughed and recognized Anderson’s attempt to calm some of his anxiety.  It wasn’t working, but the show of support was welcome, nonetheless.

      “I’ll take a snap of myself right after my alarm sounds tomorrow morning, to give you some evidence to present for your argument.  Until then, though… I suppose I best get back to smiling and waving.”

      “It _is_ what you’re good at.”

      “Thanks.”

      “If you’d like, though…”

      “Yeah?”

      “Once you’re done here, I may have secured permission for you visit a children’s ward at one of the hospitals and donate a few cases of toys.  Without a train of photographers following along to get in the way.”

If the average person knew how much the superstar Greg Lestrade did for charities, they’d be astonished and, likely turn it into a media frenzy that would do nothing but stab at Greg’s tender heart.  Greg made obscene amounts of money, but never hesitated to use that money or his name and influence to help out a person or group that was struggling.  If there were more people like him in the industry, this world would be a much better place…

      “Really?  Brilliant!  That is absolutely and positively the most brilliant thing I could have heard right now.  My mood is officially boosted.”

      “I thought you could use a reward for today’s nonsense.  As well as getting you out of that _Vogue_ party tonight because you’ve got a score of early interviews tomorrow and if you don’t get some sleep, you’ll look worse than you normally do.  With photographic evidence to follow.”

      “I could kiss you right now.”

      “Since that would make me vomit, I will back away slowly and tidy up a few things, so I can actually make my flight tomorrow.  When you’re done here, ring me and we’ll visit some kiddies.”

Anderson clapped Greg on the back and watched his friend put on his ‘star’ face as he returned to promoting his new film.  Which would be another in a very long string of films that made a staggering amount of money and left Greg feeling vaguely unsatisfied as an actor.  He could understand that, academically, but it was hard to make studio heads see that a man practically drowning in money and fame wanted something that would give him neither of those.  Well, it was his job to represent his client’s interests, lucrative or not, and that is what he would do.  Heaven and Earth would be moved to try and land Greg this Holmes project and, if he couldn’t do it, then nobody could.  And nobody would kick themselves harder for failing…


	3. Chapter 3

Anderson had made good use of his pre-meeting time in London to learn what he could of the enigmatic Anthea and pull together some additional material to boost his client’s profile for the role.  He’d visited a few of Greg’s very old friends from the theater and low-budget film days and gotten copies of impossible-to-find photos and press clippings lauding his performances, as well as hearty encouragement to pass along their contact information for some personal recommendations of Greg and his acting work.

Then, he’d made a reservation at what he hoped was a restaurant to put Anthea in a good mood for discussing this tangled web.  One of his own acquaintances had to deal with her for another of her firm’s clients and, apparently, decided an extremely upscale establishment where the food was exquisitely sculpted and the biggest names in entertainment and politics rubbed elbows would serve to impress.  It hadn’t.  So, _he_ was wagering that she might appreciate a location that was cozy, friendly and served hearty portions of the best Italian food he’d ever eaten.  And, that wager was about to be tested since his lunch guest was now being shown to his table.

      “Mr. Anderson?”

Was the name of the man who stood to pull out Anthea’s chair then dropped back into his own when she gave him a look that said his idea of somewhat-sexist chivalry wasn’t going to be met with gladness.

      “Philip, please.  Or just Anderson.  _Mr_. Anderson became a bit embarrassing after _The Matrix_.”

At least his weak joke earned him a ‘ok, you might not be completely dreadful’ nod.  It wasn’t much, but he’d take any goodwill he could get at this point.

      “Fair enough… you may call me Anthea.”

Another thing Anderson had learned and had impressed upon him with skull-denting force.  Anthea was Anthea.  Yes, other names existed, but you were certainly not privileged to speak them lest you and your descendants be cursed through time with the foulest of bedevilments.

      “Thank you.  And, thank you for meeting me like this.  I know you’ve been dealing with the studio people, but…”

      “You wanted to make a personal pitch.”

      “I did.  A glass of wine before lunch?”

Having taken his wagering all the way to Ascot, Anderson had seen a bottle of unfancy, but wonderfully-flavorful red brought to the table to breathe and was happy that the eye Anthea ran over the label was an approving one.

      “A glass of _that_ is always welcome.  Not many people realize how nice it is, given how little you pay for it.”

Success!

      “Price and quality don’t necessarily go hand in hand.”

      “Your client comes at a _very_ high price, if I remember his fee for his last few films.  Maybe I should rethink this meeting if _you’re_ not even sure he’s good for the part.”

Anderson paused pouring a second and cursed that he’d lulled _himself_ into complacency!  That’s not how it was supposed to go.

      “Hence the ‘necessarily’ caveat.  Sometimes price and quality are _very_ happily matched.”

      “Sometimes.  Oh, this is just as good as I remember.  And, I have to say, if my nose can be believed, and it _always_ can, the food here is good, too.”

      “It’s been one of my favorites for years.  Steady local clientele and operates on the principle that making you happy makes them happy.”

      “Very good to know.  I may need to add this one to my list.  So… what do have to say to me, Anderson, that the studio hasn’t?”

Down to business… that was what he was ready for.  Given those in their profession saw nearly every moment of their day consumed by this matter or that, efficiency was paramount if you wanted to remain a member of their profession for any length of time.

      “Possibly little, given they’ve been pushing hard for Greg but, what I _can_ add is how much he wants this part.  It’s right for him and he’ll do an incredible job with it.”

      “Maybe.  There is a great deal of subtlety with this character, a lot that has to be conveyed with tone, inflection, facial expressions, presence… I haven’t seen much of that from your client.”

      “Not because Greg can’t do it, more because the studio leverages other aspects of his talent in his films.  And… it’s not something that has my client’s enthusiastic approval.”

      “No?”

      “It’d be a lie to say he’s not happy with his films or what the money and exposure enable him to do with his life, but it’s left one part of him unfulfilled and that’s the part that wanted to be an actor in the first place.  The part that drew him to his first audition and to haunt the London theater scene learning all he could to make his own performances better.  He signed on with films that could scarcely afford film, let alone someone to wield the camera, because the part he’d play was genuinely interesting and challenged him.  Same with the roles he took for the stage.  Greg’s an actor, apart from being a film star, and that’s why he wants this role.  It’s a chance to do what he truly loves, and I honestly can’t think of another person who’d fit the character better than he would.”

The waiter arrived to take their order and Anderson hoped it gave Anthea a moment to think about what he said.  And she ordered the ravioli!  That was always exceptional and would do its own part to persuade her he knew what he was talking about.  A man who knew ravioli surely knew actors, right?  Frankly, ravioli was more complex, in some ways…

      “Why has Mr. Lestrade waited until now to reach for a part like this one?”

      “He hasn’t.  He’s been pressing to get different sorts of parts for a long time.  The problem is, once you’re pigeonholed, it’s hard to break out.  Studio executives and producers know what they can use you for to make the most money and aren’t willing to let that money-making potential go to waste.  And… they’re probably worried he’d make a mess of it and embarrass himself.”

      “Then why are they pushing him for _this_ film?”

      “Because it has potential to be big.  Yes, it’s thoughtful, but there’s a great deal of suspense and enough action that it would keep Greg’s current fans happy, but could bring in another type of filmgoer into their tent.  And… your client has a lot of books to his name.  One successful film could lead to more and that’s something they like – a franchise.  Even if it ultimately moves into their television division to be developed there.  They don’t really care about Greg or your client, they’re just looking at the bottom line and what will make that happy.”

Anthea nodded as she took another sip of her wine and had to admit that Anderson seemed to have the right end of the stick.  She didn’t represent anyone in the film industry, but she dealt with those who did often enough that she could spot someone who was smart and realistic, as opposed to someone who was clueless or a liar.  That was a nice feather in her tablemate’s cap, whether he realized it or not.

      “Harsh, but it runs fairly along the lines of what I already suspect… but, again, why hasn’t Lestrade simply used his leverage to get a few smaller films, if that’s what he wants?  Or take time to do a bit of theater?”

      “It’s surprisingly hard.  At his level, you get signed for multi-picture deals and the studios have the greatest say about what those films will be.  Greg actually gets a clause in his contract that he can do a film of his choice when he has a deal like that but… he’s not often approached with anything that intrigues him.  Small filmmakers assume he’s too expensive or wouldn’t have interest in their work.  Some likely assume, too, he’s a ‘star’ and might be too demanding or have too high of filming or production expectations and they shy away.  It’s tragic, because he’s precisely the opposite.  He’s one of the most normal men you can imagine.  Does his own shopping, sneaks away for a few at his local when he’s in London and there’s a match on…  A play would be difficult, too, because it’s a large time commitment, unless it’s a very limited run.  Shooting a film can go quickly for the actors, but a play’s a different matter and with shooting schedules revised on short notice a goodly percentage of the time, he doesn’t want to commit and leave the stage production scrambling to replace him.”

      “That’s a point in his favor.  Mr. Holmes values integrity and sense of commitment.”

Yes!  Scored points are lovely, happy points… now, could he score more loveliness and happiness…

      “And that’s what I hope to learn from you.  Why is he so against Greg?  What can we do, on our side to change his thinking?”

As the food arrived, Anthea mulled the question of the day.  In truth, she didn’t know what would make a difference to Mycroft’s lodged-in-cement thinking and had hoped from this meeting to glean whatever tidbits she could about Greg Lestrade to see what might appeal to her client.   Being a ‘normal’ man wouldn’t do much, since Mycroft had about as much respect for normal people as he did film stars, but a sense of honor might.  Respecting obligations and commitments… that was the sort of thing Mycroft, himself, found important.

      “In truth, I doubt he’s specifically against your client, just… anyone in his situation.  Mycroft did’t want this film made, to begin with, and the more Hollywood-y it is, for lack of a better term, the more unhappy he’s going to be.  Your fellow is about as Hollywood as they come though, yes, I know he’s based here in London.   And… Mycroft’s possessive of his work.  When he has a new novel, or a reprinting of an older one, he has control over every aspect of publication – cover art, fonts used, kerning, pagination… name it, his fingers are in the pie.  Each of his novels is tailored precisely to his specifications and… I can’t say it’s been a mistake.  His works are used for bookcraft exhibitions and seminars.”

      “And there aren’t the pies here for him to finger.”

      “That’s certainly part of it.  He also values his work.  Takes pride in it, truly sees it as an accomplishment to treasure, but also to guard and protect.  It’s an extension of himself, in many ways, and he doesn’t take that lightly.  And, you have to admit, books don’t always get the treatment they deserve when a film studio gets its hands on them.”

      “Oh, I’ll gladly admit it.  It’s criminal the rubbish I’ve seen churned out for what was actually an amazing novel.  But, I’ll tell you this… Greg is one of the few actors I know with the clout to push back against a producer or director veering off into the shrubbery and making a mess of a script or source material.  This wouldn’t be the first film he’s done that was adapted from a book and they’re considered some of the very best out there, partially, because he called out ‘artistic license’ for what it really was, ego, incompetence or lunacy.  And the producers listened because he can walk from a film if he genuinely believes it’s being butchered during filming.  He’s done that, too, so when he raises the point, it’s taken seriously.  Once it’s in post-production, he’s got less say, so I can’t offer any guarantees for that end, but if your client wants an ally on set during filming and a powerful ally, at that, Greg’s the man he wants.”

Anthea savored what was the best ravioli her mouth had tasted in… forever… and tried not to give too much evidence that Anderson had scored a major point.  That _would_ appeal to The Hermit, though it might be agony for Greg Lestrade who would have to deal with her client’s incessant demands for information and responses to that information when it didn’t please him.

      “Interesting.  What’s your client’s take on the character?”

Should he give Greg’s actual impressions or something a bit more… who knew what.  Well, since he didn’t know what, might as well go with the truth.

      “That he’s empty.  He’s a person, too, who’s nearly given up believing that the emptiness can be filled.  He’s brilliant, but it’s a sharp brilliance that cuts people too soft to withstand it.  There’s a light in him, a nearly blinding light, but it’s at a frequency that few to none can see, so they see no light, instead.  He’s trapped by his own genius, a good man, in his own way, but not sure, himself, if he’s a happy one.  Greg thinks that the descriptions he’s seen or read in the media about Diogenes Bell is off the mark.  He’s not lost… he knows exactly where he is.  He’s just not certain if that place coexists with this reality or not.”

Points, points, points… apparently, Mr. Greg Lestrade had a brain in that pretty head of his.  One that saw things closer to what Mycroft imagined for his detective than the critics perceived, or many of the readers.  This meeting was certainly worth the bother of rescheduling a bevy of other appointments and maybe, just maybe, it might pay dividends when she had her next conversation about the film with Mycroft: Man of Mystery…

      “I’ll say this for Lestrade… he’s not stupid.”

      “No, he’s not, though that doesn’t always come through in his press.  Too many media outlets prefer to play up his looks and don’t give four seconds or four words to the fact he’s actually intelligent.  Not highly educated, he left school at fifteen, but education doesn’t always equate to intelligence.”

      “No more than price does to quality.”

      “Precisely.”

Anderson ate a mouthful of his excellent lunch and banked that the tiny smile on Anthea’s face said this meeting was bearing fruit.  It might be a few small berries, but that was more than he had when he walked in here.

      “What else, Anthea?  What else can I do, can Greg do, to sell him to your client?  I can give you references of people who worked with him on the sorts of projects Mr. Holmes seems to respect.  He’s well-read and Mr. Holmes is one of the authors he admires, from before this project was even being whispered about.  Greg’s dedicated to his craft, takes it seriously and he won’t do any less for this project.  Maybe… maybe he should have the chance to tell this to Mr. Holmes in person.”

      “Hmmmm… that’s… tricky.”

For so, so many reasons that not-Mr. Anderson didn’t need to know at this moment.

      “If he wants to know who Greg is, dig into how he sees the character and his ideas on portraying him, that’s going to be the best way to do it.”

      “I don’t disagree, I’m simply saying it’s tricky.  Let me talk to my client about it.  We have a meeting this weekend about his new book and that will be a good time for me float the idea by him.”

      “This weekend… couldn’t you do it sooner?”

      “No, I’ve got a meeting for another client tonight and the next two days …”

Are Thursday and Friday, which are Mr. Holmes’s writing days.  One does not visit Mr. Holmes on writing days.  One does not speak to Mr. Holmes on writing days.  One tries not even to breathe loudly near Mr. Holmes on writing days, nor wear colorful clothes, shiny jewelry or have painted nails.

      “Mr. Holmes has his own matters to tend to.  But, I _will_ speak to him on Saturday and… I might be able to persuade him into a phone conversation.”

      “Greg will want face to face.”

      “What your client wants isn’t the priority in this situation.  Let me see what I can manage, and I’ll let you know.”

      “When?”

      “If I’m lucky, Saturday night or Sunday morning.  Mycroft might want to think a little before he gives me any sense of how he’s leaning, though, so don’t be surprised if it takes a little longer.  But, I will say this… I’ve got a bit more to go with now than before.  And, you said you had some names for me as references?”

      “Yeah… I’ll text them to you.”

      “Good.  The more I can bring to the table, the better.”

      “That sounds like you’re in favor of Greg getting the part.”

Anthea dabbed her lips and credited Anderson with candor, which she appreciated in their line of work.

      “I do, actually.  A few physical things I might alter to make him better fit Bell’s appearance in the books, but a good bit of that can be solved through makeup, hair and wardrobe and… the rest works for me.  I think he’s a good choice, the _right_ choice… ultimately, though, it’s not my decision.  I’ll do what I can, but when Mycroft makes up his mind, there’s no power on Earth that can change it.”

      “Perhaps a little tiramisu will give you a touch of otherworldy power?”

This smile on Anthea’s lips was precisely what one would expect from a person who knew the negotiating force of stellar cuisine and wasn’t afraid to use it themselves.  It was good when a colleague spoke your language.

      “There’s no harm in trying.  I’m a firm believer in alternative paths to power.”

Anderson settled back in his chair and felt a welcome amount of tension bleed out of his core.  He wasn’t going to get ahead of himself, though, this still could fail and easily, at that.  He’d gotten the impression that this Mycroft Holmes wasn’t one a manager or agent could simply point this way or that and give them a shove to get them moving in the needed direction.  But, Anthea had been with her client since her father retired, from what he’d learned, and a relationship that longstanding gave you ways to read situations and, at minimum, make your very best case.  It was highly similar to what he had with Greg… he couldn’t always get the prat to budge on a certain point of a deal, but he could get closer and work a better compromise than someone else might.

If, ultimately, Greg didn’t get his part, it wouldn’t be for lack of trying on multiple people’s parts.  It’s just… Greg was a good man to make his own arguments and was a genuinely affable chap, to boot.  A simple meeting might be exactly what was needed to unlock this puzzle.  Maybe over a leisurely bite of tiramisu, he could nudge Anthea further towards that idea.  If not… well, this restaurant also delivered for special customers, which he could proudly claim to be, and he had two days for their fabulous fare to batter at her defenses…


	4. Chapter 4

      “That’s all?”

Anderson made a rude gesture at the phone, wishing his client could see it, then made a mental note to text Greg photo of the gesture once he’d ended the call, because it had been a particularly well-executed example of the breed.

      “What did you expect, you prat?”

      “I… more!”

      “Brilliant.  Look, I had a very positive meeting with Mycroft’s agent and she stated clearly she supports you getting the role.  Anthea is best positioned to champion that opinion to her client and would know how to approach him to maximize her chances.  If she says she’ll talk to him on Saturday and try to broker a phone conference, then I feel certain it’s because she’s confident that’s the best way to move forward at this point.”

      “That’s two days away!  For a fucking maybe!”

      “And that’s not a problem, timing-wise.  This is still in the planning stages, Greg, and the studio can easily wait for awhile if they think they’ll ultimately get what they want.  And they _do_ want this.  Mycroft’s got more than one novel in that series and each is ripe for a film or television treatment.  Maybe even a mini-series, they’re doing well in a lot of markets and landing that is money, money, money.”

      “What are thinking, something like Poirot or Miss Marple?”

      “Maybe.  This film a massive test balloon for what might be possible, so they’re not going to blink that we’re on hold at the moment, because progress _is_ being made and they don’t need final casting decisions at the moment.  The publicity machine isn’t ready to start running and a little intrigue as to who will be the lead is always good to spur interest that filters into word-of-mouth mainstream.  It’s fine, Greg.  Stop worrying.  About the additional wait, that is.”

That was easy for Anderson to say, in Greg’s opinion.  He wasn’t the one sitting here, in a hotel suite, on pins and needles because… aaarrrggghhh!

      “Tell me the truth, then.  Do _you_ think Holmes is going to agree to a meeting?”

      “Anthea used the word ‘tricky’ for a face-to-face, but… let’s just look at the possibility of a phone call now and get some ideas together for how to make that work to best effect for you.  If he agrees, I’ll try and get more insight from Anthea about how best to approach him during that call, but if he’s more of a ‘oh fine, let’s do it’ and rings straight away, we should be prepared.”

      “I still think this should be done face-to-face.”

      “As I was told, quite pointedly at that, your wants aren’t priority in this situation.  Let Anthea do her job, Greg.  She thinks his interests, at least for the film, are best served by getting you on board, so she _is_ going to sell you, probably better than you or I could.”

As much as he wanted to believe that, Greg simply couldn’t.  Nobody could sell him better than himself.  Even Anderson trotted him to meetings specifically for that reason!  Smile, charm, dazzle… it was all shite, of course, but, in this business, it worked.  He could accept being tethered here for today’s meeting, but… it didn’t make sense beyond that.  If Holmes’s problems were with him, personally, then the discussion about those problems should in-person, too.

      “Greg?  You still there?”

      “What?  Oh, yeah.  Just thinking.”

      “That usually means a headache on its way for me.”

      “Not always…”

Maybe this time, though.

      “… how long will you be in London?”

      “Until tomorrow morning.  I’ve got an early flight booked.”

Good.  Then you’ll be in the air for a hundred years before you find out _I_ was in the air a hundred years _today_ to… do something.  The exact nature of what that is may still somewhat be in the development stage, but it _will_ be something and it _will_ be done.

      “Alright.  I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

If we do a bit of video conferencing, otherwise nope.

      “Ok.  I’ll check in with a few people before I go, just to mine any final information about this Holmes character, then we can get a battle plan together.  Dinner tomorrow night, if I’m able to keep my eyes open?”

      “Sounds good.  I won’t pencil it in, since I know how knackered you are after a long flight.”

      “Yeah, that’s probably for the best.  Arsehole.”

      “Prick.”

With the traditional farewells bestowed, the call ended, and Greg quickly phoned the studio travel division to get him a non-stop flight to London leaving as soon as he could get to the airport and, then, to a friend in the studio who would be happy pass along Mycroft Holmes’s address or find it, if they didn’t have it already.  It would be crippling, but he’d accept a little crippling to knock on Mycroft Holmes’s door and shine the Greg Lestrade grin right into his eyes.  Or, more probably, begin a monologue from a Pinter play to catch the bloke’s attention.  Whatever worked.  Whatever the fuck worked, he would do, and he wouldn’t know what that was until he could look Holmes in the eye and read what he saw there.  A phone call wasn’t going to give him that.  Of course, he’d have his own headache from Anderson yelling at him, but that plus the crippling was a small price to pay for getting this role…

__________

      “Ugh…”

      “Sir?”

Greg sat up straighter and smiled at the train attendant who was, helpfully, bringing him the death-by-caffeine cup of coffee he’d requested.  The crippling was in full swing and he remembered every time he flew back to London from LA and how it unfailingly sucked balls.  Maybe this was a bad idea.  He looked like hell, felt like hell and certainly wasn’t thinking as clearly and sharply as he could.  Probably should have stayed the night in London and started fresh, but no… his feverish little pea brain said this was brilliant and not one neuron in there was willing to take the opposition’s side and make a case.  Cowards.

      “Thanks.  How long until we arrive?”

      “Oh, not long at all.  It’s a nice day, too, so I hope you have time to take in the scenery.  The village is a lovely one, the sort they put in the tourist brochures to make England look like it does in all the films and on the telly.  But… well, you would know all about that, wouldn’t you?  You… you _are_ Greg Lestrade, aren’t you?”

The gleeful look on the young man’s face was one Greg recognized from countless people who had recognized him and finally worked up the courage to admit it.  But, since it had gotten him premier service, even for this first-class section, he wasn’t going to complain.  Walking to get his own coffee might literally have killed him at this point and he was already facing being crippled as it was from this perhaps-stupid decision.

      “That I am.  I’m glad you’ve heard of me.”

      “Heard of you!  I’ve seen... I don’t think there’s a film of yours I haven’t seen.  Would you… I hope it’s not an imposition…”

That hand gesture was another one Greg recognized and he rallied to put on his most winning smile for the quick selfie, which genuinely thrilled the attendant and, as genuinely, put a lift in Greg’s spirits.  Maybe he didn’t do Shakespeare, but he _did_ make people happy, and there was value in that.  A lot of value, actually…

      “Thank you!  This is… I’ve never met a film star before!”

      “I hope that means you’ll buy a seat for my new film.”

      “I am!  I’ve been reading all the stories about it and it looks like one of your best.”

      “It’s a fun one, that’s for certain.  And… oh, looks like we’re about there.”

      “What?  Oh, you’re right.  I’ve got to get back to it, I suppose.  Thank you, Mr. Lestrade… it was… amazing to meet you.”

Watching the young man dart away, Greg drank down his coffee in three large gulps, then gave his head a good scratching, which made his hair a chaotic patch of weeds, but that just complemented the rest of his appearance, to his mind.  First stop, a nice little place where he could have a bit more coffee and something hearty to eat to keep that coffee from eroding his stomach lining, and which would let him use the loo for a quick bit of personal grooming.  The last thing he wanted was to look like a vagabond when trying to convince Holmes that he was a mature, serious actor.  Yeah, he hadn’t properly thought this through… but, since that described a vast quantity of his life’s decisions, onward and upward it would be…

__________

      “Is there anything else I can get you, sir?”

Progress to date - not one flicker of recognition on anyone’s faces, which was brilliant and excellent coffee, which was doubly brilliant.  The thick burger cooked exactly as he liked it was triply brilliant and he felt only a million percent better than he had when he walked into this cozy pub which was within staggering distance from the train station.

      “No, I’m good, thank you.  Unless… do you, by any chance, know where the writer, Mycroft Holmes, happens to live?”

Ok, that was not a happy look on his server’s face.  Or, not so much not happy as wary.  Wonderful…

      “Might I ask why you want to know?”

And, now, almost every person in the place was giving him the face.  Locals protecting their own… a grand thing except when it worked against you.

      “I’m… I’m supposed to meet with him about a certain matter.”

And, of course, do look over to who must be the manager or owner, who is smirking as if I just said I was going to propose marriage to the man, then back at me to shake your head.

      “No, you aren’t.”

      “I am!  I’m supposed to meet him today to discuss some business and…”

Now, the whole place was smirking at him.  If this turned out to be Royston Vasey, he was doomed…

      “No, you’re not.”

Should he try the grin?

      “You’re selling something, aren’t you?”

The grin failed!  She thought he was a salesman.  That didn’t bode well for his longevity as a sex symbol…

      “I’m not selling anything.  See any sample cases or anything?”

      “Uh… you can do that sort of thing with a mobile now.”

Shit!  He was an old geezer!  He was his dad.  This was the most depressing day of his whole fucking life.

      “I’m still not selling anything.  He and I are supposed to meet and have a simple, friendly chat about…”

They were laughing at him, now!  He was his dad, in the fucking center of Royston Vasey, and Anderson didn’t know where he was to send a rescue party.  If he even tried to phone for help, his mobile signal would probably route to the bloody TARDIS who would tell him to sod off for being a lying old man with weed-patch hair.  At least the manager-type seemed ready to take a little pity on him…

      “Oh, tell him, Ginnie.  Wagers, everyone?”

Greg looked around as wallets came out and a quick stack of notes grew on the bar, along with betting slips for whatever it was that had interest running high.

      “Ummm… Ginnie, is it?  Can I ask what’s going on?”

      “Oh, nothing.  Anyway… where’s Dave. Dave!  Drive this bloke to the manor, would you?”

Spotting the middle-aged fellow draining the last of his pint as he rose from his seat, Greg wasn’t entirely sure if accepting a ride to an unknown location was the smartest choice in the world.  However, since it _did_ seem to be taking him where he wanted to go…

      “Got it covered.  Watch starts the moment we arrive.  Alright, sir.  Let’s get you to your simple, friendly chat, shall we?”

      “Ok… thank you.”

Tossing on the table a sum equal to what he hoped would cover his bill, Greg stood, cleared his throat and smiled weakly before following his benefactor out of the door, with the sounds of chuckling following in his wake.

      “I take it the manor is more than a pleasant walk from the village?”

      “Oh, you could say that.  I’ll check I have enough petrol before we leave, though, just in case.”

Petrol?  Oh bloody wonderful.  He was being driven to Scotland to be slaughtered amongst the sheep.  Nobody would find his body for days and the sheep would probably desecrate his corpse in every manner of mean-spirited ways, too.  Miserable creatures.  For that, he was having lamb for dinner every night for a month.  Except, he didn’t like lamb.  They were already desecrating him!  This wasn’t going to end well… not in the slightest…


	5. Chapter 5

      “Bloody hell!  How much further?”

They’d passed Scotland and their maniac sheep, and were headed towards Greenland!  He probably slept during the Atlantic crossing, which was a pity, since he might have caught sight of a puffin or two.  Could have asked them if they knew anything about the temperament of the sheep population of Greenland.  They seemed to be wise and knowing birds, at least from what he’d seen in the nature programs.  Of course, with his luck, David Attenborough was taking payoffs from the Scottish sheep and this was all a massive conspiracy to ruin his life.  And, no, for the record, he was not an hysteric…

      “Oh, another ten minutes.  Give or take.”

      “Give or take, what?  A century?”

      “Mr. Holmes likes the country life.”

      “Which country?”

      “Sounding a little tetchy there, mate.  And here I thought you were anxious to see him for your friendly meeting?”

      “I didn’t think it would be in Greenland!”

      “We’ve scarcely been driving half an hour.  And that’s slow driving, at that, since the roads are… well, some bits aren’t best called roads.  Lanes, maybe.  Cart tracks works, too.  Badger paths, might be the closest to the truth.”

This wasn’t, at all, what Greg had expected.  A famous novelist would have a nice home, likely, and the rural location fit, too, but… there were rural manors and there were rural murder houses that started life as insane asylums where they put the luckless relations in wealthy families who walked about in bedsheets and proclaimed themselves the wrath of God before trying to stick a knife in the butler’s back.

      “Fine, I get it.  You need a fucking tank to make it to Holmes’s house.”

      “It does help.  The only person who might have one of those, though, is old Greeley, since he’s got a bit of a taste for things a sane person wouldn’t own.  Maybe you can hire him if you find your way back here for another happy chat.  Don’t mention his teeth, though.  He’s sensitive about them.  For fairly obvious reasons, to be fair, if you’ve ever seen teeth before in your life in either a human or non-human mouth.”

Another happy chat… that would depend on the outcome of this one.  So far, his confidence level had taken somewhat of a dip, but there was still enough to see this through to the end.  A successful end.  See?  That was confident!  Very confident.  Dripping with lovely, lovely confidence.

      “Yeah, well… what can you tell me about Holmes?”

      “Mr. Holmes?  He’s… a proper gentleman.  Asset to our community.  We can always count on a few signed copies of his books to put in the annual ‘the fucking church has something wrong with it again’ fundraiser, as well as a tidy personal donation.  And, when the little nippers were selling seeds to start a garden at the primary school, he matched whatever they raised in funds and paid for the bird feeders they wanted to put in, too.”

That sounded… like nothing he could use.  He knew enough people with posh country homes who did much the same, mostly to keep the locals happy so they didn’t complain too loudly when some stupid party ended with a farmer’s fence being rudely violated by the sportscar of someone very rich and _very_ drunk.  But, he also knew enough people with posh country homes who simply made their little contributions because they were happy to do their part for the community they were part of, even if it was for only bits and pieces of the year.

      “Alright, here we are.  Hold on, mate, it gets a bit bumpy from here.”

A point proved by Greg being bounced so hard his head hit the roof of the car.

      “Ooh, that one’s gotten worse.  I’ll tell Terry to do something about it.  He runs an eye over these badger trails and keeps the weeds from overgrowing them and the holes from getting too deep.”

Implying, in Greg’s opinion, that Holmes didn’t get a lot of visitors.  So, not only a country squire, but a bit of a hermit.  He had heard the term ‘recluse’ used to describe the writer before, however, thought it was just to add a bit of color to the man’s biography.  Apparently not…

      “Probably a good idea.  Look, can I phone you when I’m done here and…”

      “I’ll wait.”

      “That’s… that’s kind of you to offer, but I’ll likely be awhile and…”

Why was the man laughing?  Admittedly, it was refreshing that he wasn’t being recognized by any of the villagers, but being laughed at by them was a touch of an ego blow.

      “Nah, you won’t.”

      “I… probably will.  We have a lot to discuss, so…”

      “Nah, you don’t.  But, good on you for giving it a try.  And, looks like you can get started on that.”

Looking out the windscreen, Greg saw the large structure looming ahead, looking _exactly_ like the murder house he was just imagining, which did not do a lot for his sense of having fallen into a dystopian village where nonlocals were toyed with before being burned at the stake.

      “Um… nice house.”

      “That it is.  Looking particularly cheery today, too.  Must be the sunshine.”

This was cheery?  Yep, he was about to be dismembered and the pieces burned at the stake.  One little stake for each finger and toe…

      “Must be.  Ok… you still waiting for me?”

Please say yes.

      “Absolutely.  Now, go on.  Let’s see how this goes.”

Greg narrowed his eyes and narrowed them tighter as his driver took out his mobile, waited until he set foot outside the car, then tapped something, grinning while he did it.  But, that wasn’t his concern right now – the murder house was.  Why hadn’t he been in more horror films!  Then he’d know what to do.  As it was, all he had was knock and politely ask if Mycroft Holmes was at home.  That was weak.  He’d definitely be the first to die in some slasher film.  The good-looking, clueless dad type who gets the first axe to the chest…  Well, here went nothing…

Knocking what he hoped was an appropriate number of knocks for a door the size and, likely, thickness of an oak tree, Greg waited a moment, then another moment, then a third before the door was answered by a young woman with a kind face that wasn’t looking particularly kind at the moment.

      “Deliveries in the rear.”

      “I’m not delivering anything, ma’am… I’m here to see Mr. Holmes.”

      “No, you’re not.”

This again?  Did someone phone ahead to warn her?  What if this was part of the clearly-orchestrated plot to distract him while they found all the necessary stakes to burn his body parts?  He’d better keep a watchful eye out for pitchforks and torches…

      “I am, actually.”

      “Nope.  Goodbye.”

How a small woman like her could get the massive door slamming in his face in the blink of an eye just confirmed Greg’s suspicions that he’d left normal reality quite a ways back and slid into a realm that loved to fuck with the mind of jet-lagged actors.

Knocking again, hard this time and hoping the large door knockers weren’t actually denting the ancient wood, Greg waited until the same irritated, kind-faced woman answered.  To glare at him.

      “What now?”

      “I really need to see, Mr. Holmes, so if you’d just…”

      “No.”

      “Isn’t… I don’t mean to be rude, but isn’t that for your employer to say?”

      “No.”

      “Why don’t you go and ask him?”

      “No.  Oh, Dave drove you.”

Waving at my driver and pointing at your watch… this is stage-worthy panto but not… and you slammed the door on me again.  Lovely.

      “Ready to go, sir.”

      “No, I’m not.”

      “It… it wasn’t really a question.”

Oh.  Well, maybe not, but Greg Lestrade wasn’t going to the stake without a fight!

      ‘Sir, I really wouldn’t keep knocking like that.  You’ll just… fuck it, this is always fun to watch.”

Greg ignored everything but the repeated knocking on the door, though he did deign to pay attention to the large shotgun being held by his current nemesis that was pointed directly in his face.

      “That’s enough of that.  Be off with you or we’ll have to call someone to collect what’s _left_ of you.”

She still had a kind face and the murderous gleam in her eye almost looked like a twinkle.

      “I…”

The sound of a cocking firearm had fully made its way into the genetic memory of all humans and triggered every possible physiological alarm to start flashing, blaring and waving hand-lettered ‘Run you fool!’ signs until you, finally, ran like a fool.  Or, in this case, nod politely and stroll away as calmly as possible.  Like a fool.

      “And… time.”

      “What?”

      “Oh, nothing.  Ready to go.”

      “Still not a question, right?”

      “Not in the slightest.”

      “Then, home Jeeves.”

Yes, being laughed at again.  This time, though he’d made a pithy joke to warrant the laughter.  Though, in his heart, he knew his joke wasn’t the reason.  Not at all.  But, no burning at the stake, yet, so some victory would be claimed.  At this point, he’d take all he could get…

__________

      “Dave!  What’s the number?”

Greg glared at the people in the pub, who were precisely the same people he’d seen when he left there to start his journey into nowhere.

      “Six minutes, fourteen seconds.  Ties to be broken if someone guessed Molly would get her shotgun.”

The loud whoop from a middle-aged woman who was waving her pint in the air made Greg’s eyes roll and he dropped into a seat at the bar to order his own pint.  Then, struck by a stray tendril of inspiration, cancelled his order and stood up again.

      “Right.  I suppose I should make my way back home.  Not seeing the success here I’d hoped for with my… business matters.  Though… I _do_ know a few people in the area.  Friends from the city who wanted a quieter life.  You know how it is.  Anyone have a car to hire so I could make my way about for a day or two?”

Laughing!  And… more wagering.  Fuck.  At least the bloke behind the bar was trying to _pretend_ he wasn’t laughing…

      “Oh, got friends about, do you?  That’s a nice thing and the weather’s supposed to hold so plan for a picnic or something fun in the fresh air.  Let’s see… Sarah?  That husband of yours still hire a car out now and again?”

An older woman at a corner table made a grand show of giving the question deep and serious thought that Greg’s professional opinion merited as BAFTA-worthy.

      “Yeah, when he’s got one that runs.”

      “Have any now?”

      “Might have.  Won’t be cheap, though.”

And, by the size of the woman’s smile, Greg knew the ‘won’t be cheap’ would make his wallet cry.  But, he had a larger wallet than these evil people knew, so they’d somewhat be crocodile tears.

      “I recognize it’s short notice, madam, and understand if there’s a… _surcharge_ for the inconvenience.”

      “Alright, then.  I’ll phone the old bugger to find the keys and… where’s my grandson?  There you are!  Put that pint down, Robbie, and take this bloke to get his car.  Check it’s got petrol, too, and the tires have air.”

      “Yes, Gran.”

Greg watched a tall, lanky man gulp down his beer, rise and then make a follow-me motion that had Greg leaving the pub a second time.  To start Plan B.  Kind-Faced Gun Woman… Molly… said deliveries were in the rear.  Maybe there were staff in the rear who were more amenable to passing a few words with a visitor.  Staff who might appreciate, too, a gleaming grin and few quid to help a good cause.

Of course, after paying for the car, he’d probably have to find somewhere to get cash.  Why didn’t he charge for photos like other film stars!  He could have gotten twenty quid from the lad on the train to hide in his shoe just for emergencies like this.  Definitely had to practice some of that forward-think he’d heard about.  Maybe Anderson could get a book or two for him on the subject…


	6. Chapter 6

Well, it was a car by the strictest definition of the term, but since the badgers that made these particular trails could easily outpace him, it was a very near thing.  No use complaining, though, because it did run, didn’t utterly deplete his accounts to hire and had the necessary petrol to make this trip out to the Hammer House of Horror and Shotguns, as well as back again.  If, of course, he actually wasn’t murdered and buried in a shallow grave, which was sounding better than his dismembered-and-burned theory from earlier.

Deciding it was probably best not to simply drive up to the house, Greg parked the car out of sight and made the rest of the way on foot, feeling only astoundingly ridiculous as he crept through the tall sections of grass and used shrubs for cover so that he could make it to the rear door unseen.  He should have worn something more… camouflaging.  Stupid Greg… think ahead next time when you’re preparing a sneak attack on an asylum-cum-murder house.  But, at least he’d made it to the door without a load of birdshot in his arse, so that was a victory… and this door looked far friendlier than the one at the front of the house.  Nice little bell to ring, too.

      “Running a bit late today, aren’t you… _you_.”

Oh no.  Kind-Faced Woman!  And her final ‘you’ was said exactly as one expected before the knife was drawn that was going to slit your throat.

      “Hello.  I… I think we got off on the wrong foot earlier and I wanted…”

      “You’ll be starting back _minus_ a foot if you don’t go away.”

      “Look, I’ve got business with Mr. Holmes…”

      “No, you don’t.”

      “Not this again!”

      “Truth doesn’t change just because you don’t like it.”

      “I _do_ have business with him!”

      “Ahem.”

      “Did you just say ahem.”

      “Yeah.  Didn’t actually need to clear my throat, but I wanted the drama.”

      “Ok… carry on.”

      “Ahem… for your information, today is not a business day, so there is a percent chance of naught that you have a business appointment.  Second, Mr. Holmes does not discuss business with anyone but his agent.  If you had something real to discuss and not whatever it is you’re lying about, you’d be talking to her.  Now, before you lose _both_ your feet, sod off.”

Greg pushed back against the door being slammed in his face and keenly felt every one of his years and every bit of his hatred of exercise for its own sake as he found himself losing ground quickly in the door-pushing battle.

      “Just let me talk a moment, will you!”

      “No!”

      “I’m not a bloody salesman!”

      “Who said you were?”

Oh right… that was the girl in the pub.  Moving on.

      “Can’t we just have a cup of tea or something and…”

      “No!”

      “Come on!  It’s a long way back and… whoops!”

Greg suddenly pitched forward as the door was flung open and he stumbled into one large body, which was actually a better thing than stumbling into the second, smaller, older one who was holding a frighteningly-impressive knife.

      “See, Mrs. Hudson?  I told you this one was loony.”

      “That you did, Molly dear.  Charles, kindly toss out the rubbish, will you?  I’ve got to get these potatoes peeled else I’d do it myself.”

Greg did not take the tall man’s pleasant smile as a good sign and implemented the classic back away with hands out in front of you, palms forward to help ward off imminent demise maneuver.

      “Wait!  Just wait, will you?  What is _wrong_ with you lot?  Fellow just wants a simple conversation and…”

Oh no, Granny Knifewielder was shaking her namesake at him!

      “You come here, unexpected and uninvited, and create a fuss large enough that poor Molly has to forcibly try and keep you out of our home.  Now, care to guess how the local magistrate is going to view your ‘fellow just wants a simple conversation’ story?”

Poorly.  He’d be put under whatever the fucking village had for a jail and they’d all likely take turns shoveling dirt in on top of him.  Maybe he’d get a straw to breathe through, so he didn’t suffocate and die.  Maybe.  Over-the-top had officially been reached, exceeded and growing distant in his sideview mirror…

      “Yeah, ok.  You’re right and I apologize for being a bit… adamant… about things.”

      “Very polite of you, now, as Molly said, sod off.”

Granny Knifewielder and Molly the Murderous, yet Kind-Faced, Woman would succeed exceedingly well in the hellscape that was the entertainment industry.

      “Can I… look, can we just sit and talk a moment?  I promise I won’t create a fuss, I just… I really could use some tea if you have it.  Coffee would be better because I’m genuinely dead on my feet and… maybe not thinking as clearly as I normally would be.”

The three people in the kitchen besides the actor shared a look that to Greg said ‘The loony man wants coffee but, in fairness, we can drop poison in it if the aforementioned fuss does arise, so there’s really no harm in letting him have a cup.’  Truthfully, Greg was a touch torn between fleeing for his life and accepting the chair that the tall man pulled out for him at the small staff table, but accepting it did mean sitting, and that sounded remarkably wonderful, at the moment.

      “Thanks, ummm… Charles, was it?”

      “That it is, sir.”

Right… if he wanted to play a detective in this film, he should maybe try thinking like one.  Ok… bloke with neatly-pressed trousers, a crisp white shirt, tie that wasn’t quite fixed as if he was on a break or waiting for work to start, freshly polished shoes and…  yeah.  There was a jacket hanging on a hook and a cap sitting on the small table beneath.

      “Chauffer, by any chance?”

      “Very good sir.  I do act as driver for Mr. Holmes.  As well as perform other small functions, as they become necessary.”

Like evicting pushy old bastards despite my genial smile, thought Greg, who suspected that the eviction would occur rapidly if he did something else on the loony scale and that eviction would not be a pain-free experience.

      “Good to meet, you.   I’m… I’m Greg.”

      “The film star, yes sir.”

What?

      “What?”

      “You are Greg Lestrade, the film star.  I did expect someone taller, but the camera is not always the most reliable teller of truths, in my experience.”

Oh good, Kind-Faced Woman was nodding at him.  Probably realized that she could sell his dead, taxidermized body for good money on the collectibles market.

      “Oh!  That’s were I’ve seen you.  I thought it might be on one of those telly programs about escaped convicts or men who did something filthy in a public loo that got filmed by someone with their phone who uploaded it to YouTube or something.  There’s a _lot_ of strange things on YouTube but, I suppose, that’s why I keep going back to have a look.”

Kind-fa… _Molly_ should be a writer for an entertainment magazine.  That wasn’t the worst description of himself he’d ever heard, and he’d read a _lot_ of unflattering things over the years.

      “Never been filmed having a wank in a toilet, thank you very much.”

      “I was thinking of filthier things, actually.  You look the type.”

Bloody perfect.  But, given he _had_ done a few fairly filthy things on screen in his lifetime, he must have some degree of ‘type’ to help pull that off.  Yeah, moving on from that now…

      “Thanks.  So… maybe you see, now, that I’m not some random bloke trying to break in to steal your knickers or something and… I really do have business to discuss with Mr. Holmes.”

Lovely.  All three were shaking their heads in that ‘poor deluded, or lying, bastard’ manner that kept the iron gate tightly shut against him getting his meeting.

      “Why does everybody think I’m lying!”

Another shared look, this one more of a ‘who wants the job?’ sort had Greg accepting Mrs. Hudson’s offered cup of coffee with something less than confidence the tide was turning.  He was actually happy Charles won the lottery, as the driver was the only person, so far, who hadn’t threatened him with a weapon.

      “It’s Thursday, sir.”

      “Yes.  For… several more hours.”

      “Thursday is a writing day.”

      “Is that a riddle?”

      “It is… the reality.  There shall be no business conducted on a writing day.  Also, no phone calls are accepted, the mail is not read, and the ambient noise level of the library and Mr. Holmes’s study must not exceed 35 decibels, though the weather is given special dispensation since Mr. Holmes has not fathomed out a method, yet, for bending it to his will.”

      “Uh… is that all?”

      “Oh, by no means, however it should serve to impress upon you why we are well aware that your claims, shall we say, lack a foundation of truth.  Further, Ms. Anthea would have notified us well in advance if there was any potential perturbation of Mr. Holmes’s schedule.”

      “She…uh… I’ve been working with her, actually.”

      “That does not sound terribly convincing, Mr. Lestrade.”

      “No?  No, I suppose not.  But, it’s not… _entirely_ a lie.”

      “Um hmmm…”

Charles cut eyes over to Mrs. Hudson who, Greg had failed to notice, was on a mobile and nodding her head.  Knowingly.  Now, she was walking over to hand the mobile to him.  It was highly doubtful it was about his birthday or the sales figures of his last film’s DVD release… so the odds this was a happy call couldn’t be called high.

      “Uh… hello?”

      “YOU STUPID BASTARD!”

Someone was angry with him.  A female someone.  Oh no…

      “I…is this… Anthea?”

      “I thought you were supposed to have at least one functional brain cell in that thick fucking head of yours!”

Apparently, it was.

      “I… look, I know that you…”

      “You don’t know anything, you melon-headed… numpty!  Has he seen you?”

      “Do you mean Mr. Holmes?”

      “WHO ELSE DO YOU THINK I MEAN?  CHURCHILL!”

      “I suppose not… and no.  I _have_ had a shotgun shoved in my face, though.”

      “Good to know Molly is on top of things.  Now, you listen to me and you listen well.  You will get out of that house.  You will not return.  You will not do a single, solitary thing to put your snubby little nose in Mr. Holmes line of sight or your ridiculous voice within his range of hearing.  You will not disturb him in any manner whatsoever.  Do I make myself clear?”

      “Clear as crystal, but…”

      “SHOVE YOUR BUT’S UP YOUR… BUTT!  You have no idea how on the precipice this deal is and one feather landing on the wrong side and you’re done. It’s over.  There will be _no_ coming back from it.  None at all.  He’ll lock that door forever and your chance will be gone.  Do you understand me?”

      “Yeah, I do.  You used small enough words.”

That was cheeky.  Probably a mistake.

      “Don’t be cheeky with me, Greg Lestrade, or Mr. Holmes will be the least of your worries.  Now, get out of there immediately and don’t do another thing to kick the legs out from under this deal or, so help me, you won’t have any legs left to kick with!”

Definitely a mistake.  And, it seemed the official theme for his day was limb loss.  Bloody marvelous.

      “Fine.  I’m going.  Happy now?”

      “No, because I still have to sell you to him and that’s gotten a lot harder to do now that I know what a stupid person you are.  Mr. Holmes admires or, at least, credits intelligence, maturity and rationality.  You, apparently, lack all that, so… I need a drink.”

In the old days, Greg’s ears would be ringing from the sound of a handset being slammed down on its base, so he put a +1 on the win column for the modern era.

      “Apparently, I am advised to make a strategic retreat.”

      “Do you require transportation, sir?”

Given vehicles driven by chauffeurs tended to be gorgeous, comfortable ones… yes.  However, he had a slower-than-a-badger, 2nd gear doesn’t quite hold so tell it to fuck off if you have to, prince of a car to return, so the answer must, sadly be no.

      “I’ve got a car, thanks, Charles.”

      “Very good, sir.  Then I suggest…”

A small beeping sounded in the kitchen, which prompted a hurried turn of heads towards the kitchen door that led into house and wild flurry of activity, most of which was directed towards getting Greg out of his chair and hustling him out the rear door but, since Greg was not a man who suffered hustling without some idea as to the reason, his small degree of ‘now, see here…” prevented the sword of Damocles from missing his skull when it fell and successfully cleaved his brain in twain.

      “Mrs. Hudson, the soap in my bath has taken on a rather repulsive shape.  Do replace it at your earliest… oh.  I see.”

Greg gulped loudly at the sight of Mycroft Holmes, standing in the doorway of the kitchen and staring at him with what did not begin to approach approval.  If there was a colder stare to be found in England, Greg hoped it was doing something useful such as keeping a good bottle of Champagne cold and not making a bloke’s testicles draw up into his body, as his might be doing right about now.

      “Mr. Lestrade…”

Slap on smile, look confident and barrel forward!

      “Mr. Holmes… I’m very glad to meet you!  I’d hoped, actually, to have a word with you if…”

      “Mrs. Hudson?  Do see to my soap and, given the circumstances, I will have my breakfast served on the Limoges and not the Wedgewood, this evening.   I have been most put off of the color blue for today.”

And, with that said, Greg watched Mycroft turn and leave the kitchen without another word.

      “Ummm… what just happened.”

A commiserative pat on the back was not quite what Greg expected from the chauffeur, but he appreciated it nonetheless.

      “Whatever business you may have had with him, sir… you can consider it closed.”

      “But…”

      “We’ll phone Ms. Anthea and tell her the news so you don’t have to.  It seems something she may need to know.”

Greg scanned the three faces left in the kitchen, besides his own, and saw nothing but ‘you poor bastard.’

      “Oh.  Thanks?”

      “You’re welcome, sir.  Are you certain you don’t require a ride back to the village.”

      “No… hired a car, thanks.”

      “Does second gear function properly?”

      “Oh, you know Mr. Howard.”

      “Just skip it completely when shifting.  Strangely, the car doesn’t particularly seem to mind.”

Smiling as gently as he could, Charles nudged Greg out of the kitchen and carefully closed the door behind him.

      “Bollocks!  I thought he’d make a cracking Diogenes Bell.”

Mrs. Hudson and Molly seconded that notion with suitable gestures made at the closed kitchen door and the man taking the long walk back to his car.  Molly gave a special one, for measure, because she’d had hopes, too, at least of seeing the film made and this might make Mr. Holmes reconsider the entire thing!

      “Stupid bugger.  He would have been amazing in that part, if one even exists anymore.  Though he really does look shorter than he does in his other films.  A touch older, too.  And more scruffy.  But a solid shave and bit of that makeup the actors wear would fix that right up.  Mr. Holmes could back out completely now, if he’s irritated enough and he certainly looked it, didn’t he?  Is there anything we can do to help, you think?”

Molly’s question was already on both Mrs. Hudson’s and Charles’s mind, but neither of them could think of a comforting answer to give.  Charles let Mrs. Hudson take the lead on breaking the news because he had disable the chimes for the longcase clock in Mr. Holmes’s study and make certain all the blue-spine books were turned so that his employer did not become more peevish than he was already.  A little forethought went a long way with Mr. Holmes…

      “I wish we could, dear, but what _is_ there to do?  Mr. Holmes has misshapen soap and he’s blacklisting colors.  That’s already got his mind in a sour place, let alone finding that berk in his house without so much as by your leave and… well, there’s nothing for it.  Let’s get back to work and… if anyone thinks of anything, let me know.”

Mrs. Hudson’s assessment wasn’t what Molly wanted to hear, but things were what they were.  There wasn’t a more decisive man than Mr. Holmes and once that decision was made, that was it.  Might as well have it tattooed on your bum.  And didn’t that Greg Lestrade have a very nice bum, now that she thought about it.  At least she could say she’d seen it in person, which was more than most people could boast.  Well, Anthea surely delivered some of Lestrade’s films to Mr. Holmes to look over and the first thing he’d do, most likely, was throw all of that in the rubbish.  Once she emptied his bin, she’d have her night’s entertainment sorted, even if there wasn’t a bit of bum to be seen…


	7. Chapter 7

      “You berk.”

Greg sighed and tapped the mobile against his ear.  When Anderson was angry, he approached Anthea in shouting volume.  When Anderson was _mad_ , his voice was about as cold and penetrating as Mycroft’s stare.  This was a very stellar example of the latter.

      “Yeah, that’s fair.”

      “What got into you, Greg?  Anthea and I were working on this and… do you know how loud she is when she’s angry?  I had to listen to her tearing you to shreds for fully putting this deal in the toilet, then tear me to shreds for _letting_ you put this deal in the toilet.  I think it’s fair to say that any future business we may have had with _any_ of her clients just flew away and took a large crap on our heads while doing it.”

      “I know.  I know I know I know… I really thought it was best that I plead my case in person.  Show him I’m more than a headshot in a folder or some one-dimensional prat prancing about on screen.”

      “Well, you showed him you were a prat alright.  Anthea’s phoning the studio tomorrow to tell them you’re officially out as a choice for Diogenes Bell and they need to find someone else.  Nice job.  Really, just an amazing job on your part fucking this up completely.  When will you be back in LA, so I can kick your arse up and down Wilshire Boulevard?”

      “I’ll start back to London tomorrow.  I missed the last train, so I found a room at a surprisingly-quaint inn here in the village and I’ll take an early train tomorrow.  Then… maybe I’ll spend a day or so in London to… think.”

      “I can reschedule what you have going for the weekend, but you need to be here by Monday.  We’ve got a full slate of interviews and several telly appearances that you can’t miss.  The studio is already going to be annoyed with you if they get wind of why Holmes formally cut you out of the film, so… let’s stay as deeply in their good graces as we can.  Ok?”

      “That’s probably a good idea.  I… I _am_ sorry about this, Philip.  I fucked up, it’s all on me and… I’m sorry.”

Listening to the long-suffering sigh through his mobile, Greg kicked himself again for being a complete disaster.  Anderson had worked hard for this and he’d kicked that hard work right in the teeth.  Along with whatever profits would have flowed into his agent’s accounts because of this film and any others that might follow.  It was a shallow concern, maybe, but he was Anderson’s only client and his earnings were what paid his agent’s bills and mortgage.  There’d be lots of other projects but, in their business, you didn’t take any work for granted.  Public opinion and tastes could change nearly overnight and the wildly successful found themselves listening to a silent phone and looking at an empty email folder in very short order.

      “I know you are.  Just remember, next time, that I know my job better than you do and listen to me when I tell you something?”

      “I will.  This… it just meant so much to me, I got blinded to the fact that I have you watching my back for a reason. ”

      “That you do… Ok, I’ll see you on Monday, if not sooner, and we can look through a few scripts I’ve held aside until we knew for certain about the Holmes project.  They’re good fits for you and I can almost guarantee that if you say yes, you’ll be signed immediately.”

Meaning more action-packed blockbusters or charming romantic comedies that were scarcely distinguishable from any of the others he had done in the past.  Wonderful.  But, it was his due, given the one chance to change that had been destroyed by his own stupidity and impulsiveness.  Maybe Anthea was right… he wasn’t the best choice for the role.  His own actions were testament to that fact.

      “Sounds good.”

Greg terminated the call and flopped back down on the bed of his tidy guest room, wishing he was falling onto a very sharp sword rather than an admirably comfortable mattress.  He’d made a true and complete mess of this and had even ignored his own brain when it was raising a few flags of doubt.  He was Greg Lestrade, man of action!  The only way to solve this problem was to jump into the thick of it, guns blazing, grin flashing and laying waste to the villains right, left and center.

He hadn’t been this stupid since he was a kid.  He’d done a lot of stupid things, then, but that’s what was expected of you when you were young, working-class, more-than-slightly cocky and trying to find your place in the world.  Of course, the consequences of that stupidity weren’t much in the grand scheme.  Black eye, lost a job in a shop you didn’t particularly want anyway, get the bent eye from your parents or some constable who had been young and stupid once himself, so he gave you a head slap rather than an arrest record…

Now, the consequences were far worse and that _was_ why he had Anderson on his team.  He’d been a young punk once himself, although a more bookish and studious punk… which really didn’t fit now that he thought about it, but complex people were tops in his book, nonetheless… and they’d first met when there was still a lingering streak of punkishness in their blood, which made them connect and want to grow that connection into a professional synergy that… well, nobody could say it hadn’t been successful.   More successful than either of them could have dreamed, even when a bottle of whisky in their blood had them standing on the table in a pub orating about how the team of Anderson and Lestrade was going to take the entertainment industry by storm.

Well, he’d rained a monsoon of piss on that today but, it wouldn’t change a thing, oddly.  He’d go on being the superstar who smiled on command, tied more and more wildly-profitable films to his professional belt and, since he was aging particularly well, segue into roles for debonair, rakish ex-agents or admirals of space fleets or whatnot.  Oh, and couldn’t forget the quiet, older man whose spirit and zest for life was reignited by the young and beautiful heroine.  He was still going to be rich… too fucking rich to be decent… and successful and have a career that made other actors positively emerald-green with envy.

And, there was no question that he’d continue to try and leverage that success to help others, when he could, and… maybe he should do more of that.  That might help fill that place inside that was growing louder and louder with whispers about his life… having little meaning.  Yeah, he could do that.  Probably should anyway, because he always believed that you did what you could to help where you saw a need.  Look for more charities that supported causes he believed in.  Donate more to smaller, struggling theaters and acting programs.  He’d talk to Anderson about it on Monday.  When he was back in LA.  In the heat.  And the sunshine.  And the fans… who made all of that good work possible.

It took a further forty seconds of self-pity for Greg to launch himself off the bed, run a hand through his hair and start off towards his temporary local.  They knew him there, in a sense. He was something of a celebrity now and he might as well wallow with a pint in his hand than wallow without one.  Beer made wallowing so much more fulfilling… and the inn was about equidistant from the pub as the train station, so staggering back when he’d finished wallowing would be a simple thing, indeed.

__________

      “Oh, you’re back.  What can I get you, mate?”

How nice that the same man tending bar earlier was still here.  As were, as he’d anticipated, most of the patrons.  His adoring crowd.  Maybe someone would buy him a pint.  That would be nice.  Little show of friendship and camaraderie for the man who’d won some of them a hefty spot of cash.

      “Pint of lager, please.”

      “Coming right up.  How’d your visiting with friends fare today?”

Oh fuck off with your fucking knowing grin.

      “As well as could be expected.”

      “That bad, huh?  Shame… but that’s the way it is, sometimes.”

      “Yeah, I suppose so.”

      “Well, here you are.  One nice pint of our finest lager.  That’ll put some wind back into your sails.”

      “Thanks.”

Ok, at least the lager was good.  An exceptional vintage for dedicated wallowing.  Evening starting on the right foot, unlike the rest of this fucking nightmare.

      “Oh, hello, sir.  Fancy, as they say, meeting you here.”

The foot had betrayed him!  He should have known.  The feet/leg dismemberment conspiracy had only gone underground to leap out and attack when he least expected it!

      “Ah, yes… Charles, right?”

      “That it is.  Might I join you?”

Given there was an empty seat next to him and the pub was bustling, saying no would not only be rude, it would be the sort of rude that made you feel dirty about yourself.  He may have no feet or legs left, but damn it all, he still had good hygiene!

      “Certainly.  I’m a bit surprised you’d want to, though, given… today.”

Charles smiled as he took the vacant seat and made a gesture that Greg assumed meant ‘bring one of my usual’ to the man behind the bar.

      “To be honest, we see a lot of that sort of thing.  Fans of Mr. Holmes’s works, aspiring writers who hope to have him read their novel, individuals who believe they could better represent him than Ms. Anthea… the list goes on and on.”

      “Molly seems to have a good handle on things.”

      “That she does.  Her family owns the bakery and… well, the village is somewhat protective of Mr. Holmes.  On a day she was making a delivery, one of the aspiring novelists happened to try and gain an audience.  He was bit too pugnacious for the maid we had at the time and Molly stepped in to sort matters out.  Ultimately, they both found better-suited employment by exchanging jobs.  Our maid is now a contented member of the bakery staff and Molly is happily ensconced with us.”

      “Oh, well… that’s convenient.  I admit, it's a bit difficult to see her gun-toting self as maid.”

      “Yet, that _is_ her title, insomuch as any of us can be anointed with a single label. It is a very small staff and we do a variety of jobs to keep the household running.  Given it is, by necessity, a round-the-clock household, the more versatile the staff, the better.”

      “Round-the-clock?”

      “Another reason, sir, we knew your story rang a touch false.  Mr. Holmes does not rise until late afternoon, at the very earliest, and lives a most nocturnal existence.”

      "Oh… yeah, I didn’t know that.”

But every person in this evil village did, obviously.

      “Not surprising, as it's not something widely known, though, also not a secret.  Molly takes what would be termed, the day shift, and Martha, Mrs. Hudson, covers the nighttime hours.  I span a more intermediate time frame as running household errands and the like is done by day, but Mr. Holmes’s rare forays from the house occur at night.”

      “Makes sense.  Well, I’m glad it works for all of you.  Since…”

      “Since _you_ won’t be working with Mr. Holmes after… the debacle.”

      “Well put.”

      “It’s a shame, though… you _did_ have the support of Ms. Anthea.”

      “That bridge is burned.”

      “To the ground, I have not doubt.  I can’t help but feel, however… the true villain here was… audacity.”

      “That’s true.  I should have waited for my agent to work something out, even a phone conference, but I raced forward like a loony, waving an audacity flag like I was rallying my troops.”

      “Most colorful, sir, however, you misunderstand my meaning.”

      “I do?”

      “Yes.  Audacity was the root of today's debacle but, more specifically, it was the particular _flavor_ of audacity presented that did the deed.”

      “I have no idea what that means, and I’m not even drunk yet.”

      “For the moment, that might be a helpful thing.  In any case, despite what many perceive, Mr. Holmes _does_ respect a bold and audacious maneuver.  Dedication, determination… what do you know of his early career?”

      “Nothing, really.  I’ve read what little there is online about him, but there’s not a great deal.”

      “Which is certainly by design.  Regardless, Mr. Holmes was not a man born to wealth.  His family had little to fund his education and he worked tirelessly to see himself through college and, later, did the same for his brother.  However, a history degree is not one that typically leads to wealth, or even a livable wage, and he took a job at the British Library to keep some form of roof over his head while he made a start on what he hoped would be a career as the author of historical treatises.  A hope that was bolstered given his greater access to books on areas of his interest that demonstrated, to his mind, that he could easily do a better job on the topics or history or politics that the authors who had, to date, been published.”

      “There can’t be much in the way of riches, there, either, can there?  I can’t say I can name a single person who writes in that field, besides Holmes, that is.  I did read his early works and, frankly, they were brilliant. At least to my level of understanding.”

      “Correct, both on the income and brilliance fronts.  However, the particular realization about profitability did not arrive until later.  His more proximal thoughts concerned securing a publisher.  There are a goodly number of publishing houses that specialize in academic tomes, however, they entertain writers from rather lofty levels of academia, which Mr. Holmes was not.”

      “He had a degree, didn’t he?”

      “A degree is not multiple degrees, or one at the doctorate level, from a prestigious university where he was not, currently, employed or had recently retired.”

      “Gotcha. Small circle that's hard to break into without specific credentials.”

      “Precisely. Therefore, his first manuscript was often returned, unread or with the scantest of comments indicating it had not been read with any appreciable attention.  However, by lucky happenstance, Mr. Holmes was tasked to provide a tour of the library to one such lofty, credentialed academic, though the man was, in Mr. Holmes's opinion, bereft of intellect, insight or skill with prose. During this tour, though, mention was made of a meeting this individual had with his publisher at a certain restaurant that very evening.”

      “Wait… are you telling me Holmes crashed their meeting?”

      A more apropos description that you might imagine.  To begin his campaign, a trip was made to the bank to deplete his accounts and the funds were used, in part, to bribe a waiter for use of his uniform and to take, for short time, his role serving tables, one of which was particularly notable. In that borrowed garb, Mr. Holmes gathered the appropriate plates, placed them on a tray, brought the tray to the table and dropped the entire meal onto Mr. Lofty and Credentialed's impressive suit.”

      “Oh, that’s… that’s just petulant.  I’m still not following.”

      “If that was where the story ended, it _would_ be a rather unsatisfying a story, I do admit.  However, while the restaurant manager rushed his patron to the loo for what they could manage for a cleaning, Mr. Holmes began enunciating to the publisher why he felt the now-absent academic was a buffoon, complete with a list of bullet-points from the man’s works to support his claims.  He then pulled from his jacket his own manuscript and laid that, his contact information, and a sum he had calculated would cover the suit-cleaning costs, on the table and strode away.  That publisher was Ms. Anthea’s father.”

      “Oh… now the following has commenced.  Let me guess, he signed Mycroft to a book deal.”

      “The very next day.  He was impressed both by the brilliance of Mr. Holmes’s writing but, also, by the particular audacity of his approach.  And, as he learned later, the extreme risk, given the action _did_ leave Mr. Holmes utterly destitute and… well, if you fully understood how spectacularly difficult it was for Mr. Holmes to wear someone else’s clothing, let alone participate in the breaking of dishes… it was an effort only someone of unique dedication and commitment could possibly perpetrate.”

      “So… the flavor of _my_ audacity was actually…”

      “Rather below that of an unsalted, boiled potato.”

      “That’s not good.”

      “No, I’m afraid not.  Common, predictable… anyone could do such a thing, so it didn't present you as a man willing to go to Mr. Holmes’ own lengths to gain what he desired.  And, truth be told, it didn’t highlight your talent, either.  Admittedly, there was little time for that to occur, but it certainly didn’t help.”

Charles took a moment to sip his ale and Greg used that same moment to think.  And what he thought was that Charles had a point.  Not only had he been stupid, he’d been commonly stupid.  Might as well _have_ been a salesman for all the flare or panache he’d put into his scheme.  Not a bit of anything in there to sell him as clever, committed or talented.  Nothing whatsoever.  He hadn’t even worn a disguise!  Which might, actually, have been daft, but it would have shown _some_ degree of cunning.  Even Charles saw how pathetic it had all been.  And was kind enough to point it out.  In some detail.  Somewhat unknown and unreported detail. Which one might… if one were so inclined… call _helpful_ detail.  With insight.  Insightful, helpful detail…

      “Charles, is it fair to assume you know a person or two in this village?”

      “Somewhat fair.  I’m not able to mingle as much as I might otherwise, but I do know an appreciable cross section of the citizenry.”

      “And, would it also be fair to assume you might know from whom in the village to get… a few things.”

      “Hmmm… it is certainly possible, though I couldn't offer a guarantee, you understand, until I had a better picture of what was being asked of me.”

      “Fair enough.  You… is this your evening off or…”

      “Oh, not necessarily.  None of us have specified days off, we simply look several days ahead and prepare a schedule that Mr. Holmes approves, not that he notices if that schedule is or is not adhered to with any degree of precision.”

      “That’s helpful.  Then… maybe you could offer a fellow a small amount of your time?  All in the name of a good cause, of course.”

      “Hmmm… I might be able to do that, yes.  Provided that fellow was willing to cover, say, this pint and a second.”

      “Oh, I was hoping to... get started on a little something.”

      “Mr. Holmes’s writing cycle is a series of ebbs and flows of productivity.”

That was a bit of a non-sequitur. Unless, it wasn't...

      “Which… is something I might… _a person_ might find helpful to know?”

I see that grin, Charles.  You might be trying for inscrutable, but you’re not succeeding.  Or you’re actually succeeding _wildly_ and simply relieved I’m finally grabbing the useful end of the stick.

      “People _are_ curious creatures, sir, that cannot be doubted.  To clarify, for curiosity-quashing purposes, during the flows, there is little anyone can do that will be perceived in anything other than a virulently negative light.  During the ebbs, when he might pause to enjoy a cup of tea and a few biscuits… something else might occur.”

      “I see.  Might, this particular time of night be considered flow time?”

      “That it might.  Very good deduction, sir.”

      “I _am_ hoping to play a detective someday.”

      “Really?  I had no idea.”

      “Just a random thought of mine.  Sometimes, though, they lead somewhere.”

      “When, perhaps, you are considering serving a mountainous platter of well-spiced, succulent audacity?”

      “Is there any other form?”

      “I do hope not.  What a boring place the world would be, if that was the case.”


	8. Chapter 8

_Humans were, barring exceptional examples, profound creatures of habit, a fact that had been abjectly ignored by the attacker since they failed to note that Lord Grenville-White was unfailingly half an hour late for lunch on Thursdays since he took those few moments of time to stop in for a pre-luncheon honey-cream bun at Alsen’s bakery, which they only prepared on Thursday’s and made available for purchase at precisely 11:45 am.  Had they made not of or remembered that simple fact then,_

      “BLAST!”

This was utterly unsporting of the weather, given his 9:41 pm check of the forecast clearly stated there was no rain predicted, let alone lightning!  How was he supposed to review his progress or enjoy this soothing cup of tea given the intrusive and unruly flashes of light on his monitor!  It was not possible.  Not in any manner.  Lovely… he would need, at minimum, seven minutes with the draperies closed to even begin to claw back his mental faculties.  Perhaps Mrs. Hudson would bring a few more biscuits to nibble while his brain regained its equilibrium.

Mycroft tapped the small glass sculpture on his desk three times before rising to close the drapes and quickly wished he hadn’t risen in the first place as what he was seeing through his study window was… incomprehensible.  His brain was already experiencing disequilibrium and now it was promoting hallucinations!  That were waving at him.  In between… good heavens, that Lestrade man was juggling torches!  What… oh dear, this was _severely_ discombobulating his humors…

Throwing open the window, Mycroft took a better look at Greg, who had torches, of the sort that a constable might carry when doing his nightly patrol, flying through the air and flashing beams of light in all directions, including into the author’s study.  They weren’t as attention-getting as the flaming peasant-torches Greg had wanted to use, but Charles made it clear that any accident involving Mycroft’s grounds would be looked upon with extreme disfavor and, also, that if he set himself on fire it would certainly disadvantage him from achieving the necessary look for the role, what with the lack of hair and, in some areas, patches of skin.

      “Are… are you _insane_!”

      “Me?  Not a bit of insanity in me that I know of, Mr. Holmes, but other people might have a different opinion.”

      “What… what is the meaning of this?  I demand you leave my property this instant!”

      “Nope.  This is a great spot for juggling and I’m going to take advantage of it.  Can you juggle?”

      “I… that is… irrelevant.”

      “Nah, it’s a good question!  People often have skills that aren’t well known, or they keep to themselves.  Did you know I could juggle?”

      “That… no, I did not.  Now, leave immediately!”

      “But, I’m just getting started!  This is only _three_ torches… watch closely, now…”

Greg threw the existing three higher into the air, then kicked a fourth up with his foot and added it to his performance.

      “What do you think?”

      “That you are… trespassing!”

      “About my juggling, I mean.  Come on, be honest.  I can take constructive criticism.  You’re good at that, right?  Read your book about Britain’s post World War Two involvement in Vietnam and you gave the government’s actions a thorough analysis, pros and cons both, so I can appreciate your input on something as simple as my juggling.”

_ “Ah, Mr. Lestrade, you are familiar with Mr. Holmes’s non-fiction… ensure that you mention that early on as it will likely buy you at least a tiny mote of grace.  I would wager he is unconvinced you are actually capable of reading.” _

      “You…wh… you read my analysis of Operation Masterdom?”

      “Yeah!  Always been a bit of a history buff and nearly fell over when I realized you’d done quite a bit of writing on some very interesting topics.  I did think you were a bit harsh on that Gracey fellow, but I couldn’t dispute any of the points you made for _being_ that harsh.  Overall, a balanced treatment of something I’d not really heard much, if anything, about.”

Greg continued to juggle and kept an eye on the writer who was standing backlit at the window and… not moving.  Or speaking.  Or, as far as Greg could see from the illumination of the bright moonlight, blinking.  Until he was.  With a very random pattern that might be spelling out something in Morse code or might be summoning the aliens Greg postulated dropped Mycroft off on Earth when he was a baby.  Pressing on…

      “You know, I wondered about the Major General in… I think it was in the third book of your Adele Flatley series.  I don’t think he was precisely based on Gracey, but he did seem to be based on someone.  Too many retired military types come off fake in books and films.  Either drunk and doddery or utter martinets and I’ve met a number in my day, none of whom were that extreme.  Some right bastards, that’s for certain, but they made decisions based on the situation they were in and did what they thought was right, even if hindsight proved them wrong.  Was there someone in particular you based that bloke on?”

      “I…well… that is to say…”

      “Please do.  I’m anxious to hear it.”

      “Oh… yes, well… no, I cannot say Major General Burnside was based purely on a single model, however, I did select various traits and historical points of his service record from genuine military examples.”

      “Yes!  Good to know I was somewhat on the mark.  Speaking of on the mark… want to see something?”

_ “Mr. Holmes, despite his somewhat aloof demeanor, is a voraciously-curious man.  Use that to your advantage.” _

      “Wh… that is… I have no idea.”

      “I’ll take that as a yes.  Ok, making sure none of these torches are damaged… one and two and three and four, in my hands and in the air no more… I won’t take a bow just yet, but… you have an umbrella in there?  A cane maybe or a fireplace poker?”

      “What… whatever for?”

      “Toss anything you have like that out to me and I’ll show you.”

Mycroft’s head began to move very much, in Greg’s opinion, like that of a bird’s when it was turning this way and that to see and hear all directions around it because it suspected there might be something in one of those directions that it should know about at the moment, for good or for ill.

      “One… one moment…”

After a little jig done completely out of Mycroft’s sight, Greg darted a few steps forward so the distance between him and the window was halved.

      “I… this is an umbrella.”

      “That it is!  A good choice, too.  It’ll work brilliantly.  Now, grasp it there just below the handle and toss it straight out here.”

      “Why?”

      “A question that will be answered directly after you do the tossing.”

Greg was actually surprised Mycroft simply did as requested, and with a perfect arc, so he could catch it with the tip balanced by his outstretched right foot.

      “Oh.  Oh, I see.”

      “Amazing, right?”

      “No… not particularly.”

      “Ok, amazing might be a bit of an exaggeration, but you toss a pencil and see if you can do this with your finger.  Go ahead, I’ll watch.”

      “I… no.”

      “Come on, try it for yourself.  I’ll even give you an easy one.  Just set the pencil on your finger and balance it.”

      “That is absurd.”

      “It’s just balance, not brain surgery!  You know what makes things balance, I suspect.”

      “The…”

_ “If you are sufficiently successful to begin a conversation, realize that Mr. Holmes may present as dour, at times, but has a notable sense of humor and appreciates such in others, provided it is clever and demonstrates a marked intelligence.”   _

      “Go ahead, I am preparing to be astounded by your erudite response.”

      “Very funny.  For your information, an object balances when it is subject to rotational equilibrium, otherwise referred to as balanced torque, or if the object’s center of mass remains aligned with its base of support.”

      “See!  If you know what it is, then you should be able to do it.”

      “Knowing and doing are two entirely different things.”

      “You’re right!  Takes talent and practice.  I didn’t have much of the former, but I’ve had loads of the latter.  My first job, actually.”

      “You… were a juggler?”

_ “Circus work?  That is certainly not for a layabout.  Emphasize your work ethic, especially for your acting career.  Mr. Holmes admires those who take pride in what they do and do not shirk the effort required to succeed in their undertakings.” _

      “Clown, actually.  Sort of.  More of a body to do whatever was needed, but usually that _was_ a clown sort of fellow, so that’s mostly what I did.  I left school at fifteen and, when I did, Mum and Dad said that if I wasn’t going to do my part to get food on the table, then my arse wouldn’t be _sitting_ at the table, so off I went looking for something and, wouldn’t you know it, a performing circus troupe was visiting the area.  It looked like fun, at least more than sweeping floors or stocking shelves in a shop, so I popped in to the manager’s caravan and said I wanted a job.  He laughed at me, of course, being a scruffy little punk with no appreciable skills for circusing or anything else, actually, but I kept on at him, said I’d take the lowest job they had, if necessary.  Do my part, for a fair wage, and work hard.  Work hard until the job was done and done right.  I think it was more to get me out of his caravan so he could watch the match that he told me to go and find one of the clowns and tell them to start me on a few performing skills.  Juggling was what they started me on straight away!  Got your pencil yet?”

      “No.”

      “Oh come on, let’s see what you can do.”

      “It is past the middle of the month.”

      “Why does that matter?”

      “I do not use pencils after the middle of the month.”

      “O…k… do you have one, at all, though.”

      “Yes.”

      “Then just get the beastie and see if you can balance it.”

      “It is past the middle of the month.”

      “Balancing falls into the category of ‘using’ the pencil?”

      “Would you disagree?”

_ “Mr. Holmes has his quirks, many and… quirky.  They, ultimately, are minor and if one simply, as they say, rolls with it, interactions with him are surprisingly easier that you might assume.” _

      “I… no.  No, I would not.  Alright then, you can just watch me.  Hold on, this is sometimes rather startling…”

Greg kicked the umbrella upwards and caught its tip on his chin, to continue to balance it, grinning both that he’d succeeded and that he was certain he’d heard a small gasp of surprise from Mycroft.

      “Tah Dah!”

      “That appeared to be most dangerous.”

      “Can be!  I’ve nearly blinded myself or broken my nose more than a few times and have sported a very intriguing series of bruises from practicing this trick.  But, if I hadn’t, I couldn’t do… can I get a little help for a second?”

      “Pardon?”

      “Climb out here for a moment and give me a spot of help.”

      “I… no.”

      “Oh, come on.  If you don’t, you won’t be able to see my next trick and, now that you’re aware of it… you _know_ that will bother you.”

Because you’re exactly the type, dear Mr. Holmes, who can’t let something like that lie without it itching your brain nonstop until you have to investigate and pour on some lovely mental-satisfaction lotion.  And here you come… making the most prim and proper exit out of a window in the history of window-exits, which likely went back to mud huts since you can’t really have windows in caves.

      “Thanks!  See those torches?  Could you pick them up and toss them to me, one at a time, when I tell you?”

      “No.”

      “What!”

      “They…”

      “What’s wrong with them?”

      “They are facing me.”

      “And you don’t like that.”

      “Not particularly.”

_ “Some of Mr. Holmes’s quirks… he can be made uncomfortable by certain situations and, though it is not debilitating, his distress is genuine. A kind heart takes the necessary, small steps to alleviate what it can of his troubles.” _

      “Ok, fair enough.  You tell me what to do to turn them away.  Can they just be offset or turned completely around?”

      “I would prefer a full 180 degree repositioning, but I shall accept less.”

      “Alright then.  Give me some directions…”

Mycroft guided Greg to nudge the torches to face a different way and, when they were to his satisfaction, picked them up, keeping the lenses pointed away from his face.

      “I have them.”

      “How’s your aim?”

      “Exceptional, actually.”

      “Brilliant!  Toss one into my hand.”

Greg raised a hand and Mycroft deftly tossed one torch to smack directly into Greg’s palm.

      “Another!”

Repeating the action, Mycroft startled that the torches began to be tossed in a circular pattern in front of Greg’s chest, though he was still looking up into the sky, so the umbrella would remain balanced.

      “Third one!”

This one created the juggling pattern Mycroft was far more used to seeing and he, honestly, had no idea how the actor was accomplishing the feat.

      “Last one!”

Remembering there was a fourth, Mycroft tossed it in exactly the same manner as the first three and watched Greg bring it into the pattern, feeling entirely incapable, himself, of pretending to anything other than admiration for the act.

      “That is most remarkable, Mr. Lestrade.”

      “Told you, you didn’t want to miss this.”

      “You cannot see the torches, so I fail to understand how you are accomplishing these actions.”

      “It’s about knowing your body and having a strong sense of timing and control.  When I started on the stage, I was actually ahead of a lot of the other newcomers with that, even though I hadn’t done any formal acting training.  When you’re on stage, you have to convey a lot with your body.  Have to know how to make it do what you want, even if you’re just standing still, but shifting position to better glare at the mustache-twirling villain.  Have to make the pace of the turn perfect, keep the exact angle and posture you want through every part of it, contort your face into precisely the look you want to convey your meaning… helps if you know how your body behaves and how to make it do what you want it to do.”

      “Oh… I admit I had never given that appreciable thought.”

      “Most people don’t.  Then, of course, you have to speak your lines and match the tone, enunciation, cadence, etc. to your body language and expression to fully convey to the audience what the playwright envisioned with their words.  That bit I _know_ you understand, being a writer.”

      “I… yes, I do.”

Oh, I do like the tone of your voice, Mr. Holmes.  That tapped right into your head, didn’t it?  On we go…

      “Picking exactly the right words to tell your story, bring your vision to the reader in a way that’s rich and full, and gives them room to picture things in their own mind, but along the lines _you_ want for your story to be told.”

      “That… that is not an unperceptive analysis.”

      “Thank you!  That’s important to me as an actor, too.  Knowing, to some degree, the value of the words a writer writes.  Sometimes you have make changes, because films are short compared to the time you need to read a book, but… I think it’s carried too far, much too often.  Do you notice that?  Films don’t resemble the book they’re based on at all?

_ “Remember, above all, sir, that Mr. Holmes’s objections are rooted in his fear his work will be butchered.  That his efforts will be shabbily treated, spat upon, even… he cannot bear the thought of that.  Not in the slightest.” _

      “Yes!  It is appalling how atrociously admirable works are _butchered_ by the uncultured film industry.  It is an utter disgrace.”

      “Good, then we think alike on that.  That’ll make it easier for us to work together to make sure what you want to see on the screen actually happens.  Check over the script and ongoing changes, see the set design and wardrobe match up with what you picture in your head, make certain _no_ butchery occurs that will cock up everything and make the project something you’re not proud of.”

      “Excellent. That is precisely what I…”

Greg tried not to smile and did a tremendous job of it both because he did _not_ want to jinx this and because he was actually having a harder and harder time keeping up his circus act, given he hadn’t done this sort of thing for _this_ long in decades…

      “Mr. Lestrade… did you… did you just bamboozle me?”

      “Bamboozle?  Great word!  I’ve got to remember that one!”

      “Answer the question, sir!”

      “I’d have to say, no, there was no bamboozling as I didn’t say anything deceitful or sneaky.  Just spoke the truth and it was truth that was important to you.  Helped put a worry to rest.  And I meant every word of that.  You and me working as a team on this.  Even when I’m filming, I can give you updates and get you clips to view so you can keep an eye on things.  It’s not the way it’s done, often, but I think this film needs to be treated carefully.  It’s for intelligent audiences and they can’t be fooled or placated by amazing visuals or a soaring musical score.  They’re going to want to be challenged the way they are with your books, get the chance to think… they don’t want to be insulted.  I don’t want that, either.  I want a gorgeous film that tells your story in a way that satisfies you, your readers _and_ the people who come in not having read a single of your books.  But, after they see the film, they’re looking for the novel to read and a few more of yours besides.”

      “Kindly cease your performance.”

Greg drew in a deep breath and flipped the umbrella over his head using his chin, then turned attention to catching each of the torches carefully before setting them down on the ground.

      “I have ceased.”

Being tossed off the property was perhaps what Greg expected at the moment, but coming nose to nose with the author who stared into his eyes with an intensity that actually unsettled the actor did not appear anywhere on his list of possibilities.

      “I see.”

      “You see what, Mr. Holmes?”

      “Anthea will arrive on Saturday.  You may meet with her at that time to discuss the arrangements.”

Stay cool, stay very very very very cool…

      “Alright.  Not a problem.  Anything you want to talk about now?”

      “It is a writing day.”

      “Forgot.  Sorry about that.  And I’ve already interrupted you, which is something else I apologize for.”

      “I shall overlook it this single time.  Now, given my staff has been observing matters through the window, you may have a refreshment before you depart.  They shall, I am certain, be delighted to assist you with that.”

And without another word, Mycroft turned and walked towards his study, climbing back through the open window, which was closed behind him.  Then opened twice more and closed for a total of three closings to the evening.  Which seemed fitting, in Greg’s opinion, since this evening deserved as much final punctuation and celebration as they could muster.  And, given the eager faces he could now see pressing against one of the house’s large windows, he suspected the celebration might have already begun and he was late for the party.  Well, if there was a person who enjoyed a good party, it was Greg Lestrade.

Provided the party wasn’t too loud or smoky and filled with drunks vomiting on the furniture.  Oh god, he was getting old… however, since that old man was the _perfect_ age for Diogenes Bell, he wasn’t going to complain too much about it…


	9. Chapter 9

      “No.  I did _not_ hear you correctly.”

      “Sorry, arse face, but you did.”

Two large slices of exceptional cake sitting comfortably in his stomach, as well as a few cups of delicious cake-complementing tea was making Greg quite cozy and content, but that didn’t diminish the smugness he was feeling at his agent’s clear disbelief at the sudden, game-changing turn of events.

      “You have the part?  After mucking it up like a mucking-up professional, _you_ are going to play Bell.  Your tired old juggling routine, that hasn’t pulled anyone in a pub since Churchill was born, won you the role?  I’ve seen it… it’s not that impressive.  Not impressive enough to turn this completely around.  Not impressive enough to impress your _Gran_ and she actually liked you.  Did you drug him, Greg?  You can tell me, and it’ll be cheap to buy my continued silence so you don’t languish in prison.”

      “Unbelievable, isn’t it, and not a bit of drugging was involved.  But, to be fair, I can’t take all the credit.  Mycroft’s driver gave me a lot of behind the scenes information that got me moving in the right direction and… well, he _also_ had some ideas about how to get a conversation going and not fuck it up entirely.”

      “You owe him a car or something for that bit of help.  You’re famous for fucking up conversations!”

      “What a craptastic friend you are.  Anyway, he probably has a nice car, already.  Or, he probably gets to _drive_ a nice car, so I’ll have to think of something else.  He deserves it, though… Mrs. Hudson and Molly, too.  It was something of a group effort, I gathered, to fathom out what might break through Mycroft’s Great Wall of Final Decision.  They didn’t wat to see this deal die any more than we did.  I think… I think they’re sincerely proud of their boss and see the film as something as a reward for his hard work and genius.”

      “Then they definitely deserve a little gratitude from you.  I certainly thought this was over.  I had damage control plans laid out in case the studio went a bit violent on you, spin in case the media caught wind of things… I worked harder for a job you didn’t get than to get you the job in the first place!”

      “I’ll buy you a pint for your troubles.  Which, frankly, _was_ going to be the gist of my evening before the pixie dust fell on my head.  Many, many pints that I cried into, followed by a slow, wobbly stagger back to my room to puke a few times and fall asleep.  I had a solid, proper night of wallowing planned and it was completely cocked up by my getting that part.  Dashed unsporting of Mycroft to do that, actually.  Fouling up my evening plans in such a cruel and callous fashion.  But, to be fair, given the number of books he’s written, he may not have the time for wobbly staggering and puking, so he might not recognize the importance of that in a man’s life.  Or, maybe he _does_ recognize it, he’s just highly efficient with his non-wallowing hours and has no tolerance for non-efficient wallowers.  I can understand that.  Maybe I should take lessons.  It seems a useful life skill.”

      “Are you done?”

      “No, I can go on like this for long time since I’m… I may not be drunk on alcohol, but I do feel pretty happy-headed at the moment.  Can you be drunk on happiness?  Is that even possible?”

      “Likely so, especially now, since… shit.”

      “I shit very effectively, thank you.”

      “For the record, you don’t, since I’ve had to wait half a morning for you to get out of the loo more times than I can count, but that’s the last we’ll speak of that because… you’re old and gross.  Anyway, I’ll have to contact the studio to tell them the good news and you’ll have to start preparing.  Let me see what I can do to ease your current publicity obligations.  I’m not sure how much of that load I can lift, but I suspect they’ll agree to _something_ since this is a major step forward for a film they’re somewhat frantic to get off the ground.”

      “Thanks.  That’ll actually help since you’re right… it _will_ take work to prepare for Bell’s character.  I’ve got to remember what it means to really act again!  Maybe sit in on a few workshops and dust off some skills.  And, I’ll also need to start exploring inroads to follow through with the promise I made to Mycroft, so…”

      “Wait.  Wait one moment.  Promise?  What did you promise?”

Oh yes.  Forgot that agents get a bit touchy about things like promises.   Especially ones given about an ongoing production that they, themselves, didn’t actually have control of, no matter how critical this silver-haired bugger might be _to_ that production.

      “Uhh… nothing ridiculous.  I just told Mycroft that I’d see he had a bit of input into how things were going with the film.  Comment on the script, get a look at the wardrobe, view some clips to see if things are looking the way he wants, work to get some changes he wanted made… that sort of thing.”

Though, now that he said it, that all sounded like a lot.  A very lot.  Ok, maybe he’d made a teensy mistake here…

      “What!  Greg, you know that doesn’t happen. They keep authors as far as they can from filming to avoid exactly that sort of thing slowing production to a crawl and making everyone involved completely mental!”

      “Yeah… sometimes.  Not _all_ the time, though.  If an author has enough clout, they _can_ have a lot of say.  Just look at the whole casting business!  Mycroft had total veto for that.”

      “Ok, I admit that was consequential, but once an author sells the film rights, what they can and cannot approve is severely restricted.”

      “Well, the severity is going to have to be ignored because I have zero doubt if Mycroft doesn’t get his input and doesn’t like the final product, he not only will _never_ allow another of his works to be filmed, hell do everything he can to sink this film to the bottom of the ocean.  I honestly wouldn’t put it past him to put everything in his life aside to make that happen.  Besides… a major reason he agreed to me in the role was that I’d be his connection to the film to help him keep watch over things.  He doesn’t get his input, he could still play his rejection card, toss me to the wolves and unplug the whole production.  That should be enough leverage with the studio to give him what he wants.”

      “Maybe.  But there is absolutely no guarantee of that.  None whatsoever.  That was a big risk, Greg.  A very big risk.”

Probably.  Definitely.  But Greg Lestrade is the master of cool and nonchalant, in his own mind, at least, so going forward as if this isn’t a big deal and all is right in the world.  Anything else might upset his cozy and content cake belly, which could return the puking end of his night to the realm of possibility and nobody wanted that.  Especially the maid who had to take away the bedding if the puking occurred quickly and he couldn’t make it to the toilet in time.

      “Nah, not so much, in my mind.  Between me, The Amazing Anthea and your pitiful self, we should be able to get Mycroft a few pies to stick his fingers into.  He’s not stupid, so he has to know he won’t have complete control, but a few things tossed his way for decisions or advice, listening to his ideas on the script or set design… I already told him that there have to be differences between book and film and he realizes that’s true.  Think big, monkey boy.  Keep Mr. Holmes happy so we can make a cracking, award-winning film that we parlay into more cracking, award-winning films or some long-running, quality telly.  We can make that happen, I have no doubt.”

Nonchalanting like he won prizes for it in school.

      “You are _so_ full of shit… now I know why you’re in the toilet half the day!  But…”

      “Come on, Anderson, reveal the large and lovely but…”

      “You _may_ have a point.  Just don’t promise him anything else, alright.  I’ll need to talk to Anthea and see how we might be able to manage this… how much it would take to make Holmes happy, but… oh, hold on, got another call…”

Greg smiled widely while Anderson put him on hold, then drew in a large, cleansing breath.  Holmes would get his bit of say, he felt certain of that.  It wouldn’t be much, but if the man could feel part of the process, it would go far more smoothly for all sides and that could only spell, in the long term, good things for the film.

      “Well, speak of the devil and she will appear.  I’ve got The Amazing Anthea on the other line and she’s wanting to know what did you use to drug Holmes and where can she get some.  Great minds, apparently, think alike.  I’ll talk to you later, alright?”

      “Yeah, sounds good.  Oh, and I have to go back to Mycroft’s house on Saturday and meet him with Anthea there, so…”

      “Not a problem.  I can be there by Saturday.”

      “Ummm… talk to her about it first, though, alright?”

      “What’s wrong now?”

      “Nothing.  It’s just I… I have a better idea of why she was hesitant about that face-to-face meeting and… we’ll take her lead on this.”

      “What do you mean ‘we?’  You were the one who threw her lead into the mud!”

      “Then prove you’re a better man than me.  Bye!”

Greg flopped back on his temporary bed a second time, but this time he met the mattress in a far different mood than his first collision earlier in the evening.  He’d done it.  He had fucking done it.  New rule… in the future, use his stupid head and his stupider ears for more than decoration for his neck.  Listen to people who know better than him and do not, for any reason, just blunder through things like a stoned rhinoceros.  He was going to be smart, patient, mature… all the things he wasn’t under normal circumstances, but these circumstances weren’t normal.  Far from it.  They were… heavenly.  And he would _not_ be the one cast out of that heaven because he was unworthy of all that if offered.  This was too important to fuck up… again.

So… linger here in Royston Vasey tomorrow and Saturday then present himself, ready to do business, on Saturday night.  That did mean need to find some clothes and toiletries, but the amenable locals would happily provide it all for the right price.  Renting the torches had only cost him eight billion quid, so what could a plain set of togs and toothpaste do to his accounts?  No, don’t ask that… best not tempt fate.  These people were cagey and seemed to have strong connections to the netherworld.  Take nothing for granted.  Always keep a watchful eye on the comings and goings.  He needed to be all about vigilance, keen-eyed observation and no getting sucked into the netherworld where they had no need for film stars and he’d spend eternity shoveling sulfur into the swirling, fuming hellpits.  It’s be practice, too, for playing the world’s most intelligent and successful detective, who proudly sported clean clothes, sparkling teeth and didn’t carry even the slightest whiff of sulfur about his person…

__________

      “You are luckier than you can imagine, you stupid actor.  If you ever wanted to play the lottery, this is the week.”

Greg grinned at Anthea who’d met him at Mycroft’s door at the appointed hour, which had been relayed to him by Anderson who then spent twenty minutes cursing that he had been banned from the meeting and only stopped cursing when it was agreed upon that he’d fly into London today and meet with both him and Anthea tomorrow for a debriefing.

      “It’s a burden I bear with grace.”

      “You… His Majesty is willing to take a chance on you, but you’re not beatified yet.  Now, you and I have matters to discuss first, then Mycroft is going to expect you to join him for lunch.  His lunch.  Which is everybody else’s post-dinner nosh, but it’ll be scrumptious so if you don’t eat every bite, he’ll probably suspect you have worms or something and Mrs. Hudson will murder you for insulting her cooking, so eat and smile while you do it.  And whatever you do, don’t start juggling chairs or doing the Dance of the Veils or anything like that.  Ok?”

      “Not one veil?  I’ve got some gorgeous ones I picked up at Marks & Spencer.”

      “I will strangle you with that ugly tie.  In fact…”

Anthea quickly grabbed Greg’s newly-purchased, though not at Marks and Spencer, tie and dragged it over his head, tossing it into a small rubbish bin next to the side table flanking the front entrance.

      “Hey!  That’s new!”

      “New or old, it’s hideous.  Besides, I noticed him frowning at my necklace, so he could be against red today and this failed attempt at burgundy may set him off for being too close to red or simply because it’s the most ghastly thing anyone’s work around their neck since the noose.  I don’t want to chance it.  Follow me.”

Anthea returned Greg’s rude gesture with, paradoxically, more elegance _and_ more vulgarity than his example, which made the actor realize fully how much work he needed in the rude-gesture area of his career.  Perhaps he’d get more practice during their meeting. There would likely be many moments where a well-applied rude gesture would be appropriate.  Already today was paying benefits!  And he was getting a little tour of Mycroft’s nice house which was… well, it was exactly what he’d expect for a converted murder-asylum, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t interesting.  And, frankly, gorgeous.  The woodwork, alone, was mesmerizing.

      “This way.  We’ll use the solarium.”

      “It’s nighttime.”

      “Are you going to be this disagreeable when you lunch with Mr. Holmes?”

      “Maybe.  Does he have strong views on the pro-sunshine agenda?”

      “Oh… you’re trying to be funny.  You really shouldn’t, it’s not a strength.  But, in any case, the joke is on you, funny boy since, yes, he _does_ have strong views on the pro-sunshine agenda and they center fully on the abolition of all pro-sunshine viewpoints in Western culture.”

Probably why the writer flipped his days and nights and was as pale as plaster.  And _he’d_ spent the last bit of forever in LA… in the sun.  In the sunniest sun a British person could every want to endure.

      “Shit.  I’m tan.  _Very_ tan.  Drinking rum out of a coconut on a Caribbean beach sort of tan.”

      “A fact that has likely not escaped his notice.”

      “I’ll say I was kidnapped and staked out on the beach just after I finished my coconut full of rum.  And it was over a mound of fire ants, too, so I didn’t enjoy it in the slightest.  I probably have a few pimples on my back somewhere that I can say are lingering ant bites if he needs proof.”

      “Oh my god.  No wonder Anderson drinks.  There… sit.”

Anthea pointed to what looked to be a highly comfortable chair in the large and airy room which, Greg felt certain, was absolutely spectacular in the daytime, with sunshine streaming in through the leagues of glass, helping nourish the somewhat startling assortment of flowering plants that inhabited the space.  This was a room he’d adore spending a few hours reading in and not only to work on his coconut-rum tan…

      “Thank you, but I think there may be a touch too much glare at that angle because of the blinding moonlight.”

Greg accepted being shoved into the chair as his due for being a prat and… for feeling a bit giddy about actually being in this house again and, better, having a lunch date with Mr. Mycroft Holmes.   That was the flourish on the signature, wasn’t it?  A tie-less lunch to talk about the character, maybe get some insights from the great man himself about what was going on inside Diogenes Bell’s head.  This was some properly brilliant stuff!  Much better than when he had some arrogant director telling him, ad nauseum, what his vision was for a scene that was going to last two seconds on screen and put some hard-working stuntman’s life on the line or the poor bloke wouldn’t be paid.  Much, much better indeed.

      “Now, you foolish actor… why on Earth did you promise Mycroft he was going to participate in production?”

Oops.  What was the Defcon scale for situations like this?  Why didn’t they show useful things like that in the documentaries!  The BBC had a lot to answer for in terms of his education…

      “That’s _not_ what I promised.  I just said I could gain him a little access to the process, so he could see what was going on.  Why are you shaking your head?”

      “Because you have no idea what you’ve done, and I can’t wait to sit there with my popcorn and watch the fun.  But, it’s all going to be your problem and it solves _my_ problem of having to do it, since his agreement with the studio already allows him some oversight into a few areas beyond casting.  Now, _I_ won’t have to be the one liaising between him and the luckless bastards he wants to boil in oil for whatever atrocity he thinks they’ve committed against his work.  My life just got a lot easier.  Worlds easier. Yours, however, did not.  Not in any manner whatsoever.”

      “Wait…  He… he already _had_ the ability to do all of that?”

      “Yes.  Not that he knew about it, of course.”

      “WHAT!”

      “Look, it was inevitable that he’d go loony if he didn’t know what was going on or learned something from the news or whatnot that infuriated him.  It was just a question of when and how much loony and fury would ensue.  If necessary, I could say we strong-armed the studio into a few concessions and he’d feel not only happy about the input, but also like we’d won a battle against the entertainment industry, which would please him to no end.  Consider it my emergency button.  Now, though, he’ll get the same result, but I can simply sit back with champagne and let you do the work.”

Anthea was a she-devil.  Her hair was full of more than secrets…

      “What happened to your popcorn?”

      “It made me thirsty.”

      “Makes sense.  Ok, then, I’ll keep that little tidbit to myself and we can work out the details of me doing the part.”

      “I already did that with Anderson.”

      “Oh.  Ok… I suppose Mycroft didn’t know that before he asked me here on Thursday, so… time for lunch?”

      “Wrong.”

      “Ok.  Part deux.  What am I wrong about and why did you drag me in here if not to discuss business?”

      “We _are_ discussing business.  However, I wager you have more you want to talk about than I do, and now’s a great time for that discussion.  Before you fall deeper down the rabbit hole.”

Oh… time for the talk.  Which, he had to admit was a vital one, if he was going to be working with someone as… complex and unique as Mycroft Holmes.

      “You’re referring to the Mycroft rabbit hole.”

      “Is there any other hole relevant to this conversation?”

      “Actually…”

      “Think carefully.”

      “Then no.  No, there isn’t.  But, in truth… Mycroft seems…”

      “Yes?”

      “He can’t be too much of a misery if the village and the staff here protect him like an uncle hiding from a gold-digging ex-wife.”

Was that a smile?  She-devil smiles were hard to interpret, what with the fangs and perfectly-applied lipstick, but it did seem to meet all the relevant criteria.

      “They do, don’t they?  I’m never certain exactly how much of it all he recognizes, but the village adores having their own lifted-from-a-novel rich eccentric living out here in the great spooky manor.  And, not just because it draws in a fair amount of tourists but… he fits into the little Mapp & Lucia thing they have going on.”

      “He has a familiar role in their ensemble cast.”

      “Spoken like a confirmed Hollywood shill, but correct.  And, now and then, Mr. Holmes decides he needs to refresh his perspective for a book scene in a chapter and takes himself out into the village where they pointedly ignore him while he observes… not very unobtrusively, either… and takes a few notes for this or that personality trait or name or physical attribute he wants for a character.  He’ll wander through the book shop, sniff the flowers, have a glass of his favorite scotch that they keep in the pub for when he’s having a sip-and-eavesdrop evening.  I think he actually believes nobody notices him more than they would any other patron and… everyone is happy.”

Somehow that was the most adorable thing Greg could possibly imagine involving a grown man and he could imagine a lot of adorable things for grown men, being one himself.

      “Strangely, I can see all of that happening with no trouble at all.  I’ve met some of the locals and they’re their own type of unique.  I probably shouldn’t ask, but…  is there something specific… a diagnosed condition…”

      “For him?  Most likely, and if you asked his horrendous little brother, he’d most certainly give you a list of possibilities, most of them fabricated from his own peevish brain.  But, the fact of the matter is that Mycroft Holmes sees himself as… himself.  He is who he is and there’s nothing wrong or broken or in need of fixing about him.  All of his peculiarities, his quirks and oddities… they’re no different to him than someone who prefers wearing pastels over dark colors or you liking over-ripe bananas and burnt bacon on toast.”

      “How’d you know about… oh, fuck you, Anderson.”

      “He felt he had to warn me.  For the record, you are _disgusting_.  In any case, I’m aware you talked to Charles and he gave you a bit of advice about Mr. Holmes…”

      “Yeah, he said just to go with things and, I have to admit, that does seem to work.”

      “It definitely does.  And every day is something new to just go with.  You can’t predict what’s going through his head, so don’t bother trying.  One day, this or that is fine, the next day he can’t even look at it.  It’s how that detail fits in with the bigger picture and he doesn’t even know, at any given time, how a sound or image or situation is going to impact him.  He doesn’t try or want to be difficult or offend, it’s never about that.  It’s about how he genuinely feels and thinks at that precise time, but if what he asks of you or wants to do or not do is truly a problem, you can tell him.  He _does_ understand that he’s not alone in the world and, even with people he employs, that he’s part of something and not sitting above it.  I’ll remove my earrings in a trice, if they’re upsetting him, but, once, he was bothered by my new manicure and I was _not_ going to change that for any reason.  It looked damn good on me and cost a fortune.   I did, however, do my best to keep my hands out of sight as much as possible and that worked well enough.  Sometimes, though, not a thing can be changed or amended so he simply has to live with whatever is disturbing him, the same as any of us might.  He _can_ do that and _will_ , so don’t hesitate to speak out if necessary.”

      “Charles said something similar about that, too.”

      “He would know, he’s been with Mr. Holmes longer than anyone besides me.  There are some things that you do expect, such as he has a thing the number three, colors are especially attention-getting for him, he can fixate of routine, minor bits and pieces like that… but once you get into the rhythm of it all, it’s not especially difficult to work around and through.  It actually becomes second nature and you realize that he _is_ just himself and you accept him the way he is as you would any person.  Or… you don’t.”

Greg thought a moment about what life must have been like for Mycroft before he had people watching his back like a mercenary army who were paid in gold and always on time.  He considered himself a fairly average, nothing special sort of fellow, fame notwithstanding, and he’d had to deal with his fair share of arseholes and nasty-spirited snakes who thought being rude, snide, and a general bully was a show of strength that he, for some reason, was supposed to respect.  What those people would hurl at or do to someone like Mycroft made his heart ache.

      “Which is why you keep his face-to-face meetings off the table.”

      “Until I get to know the person who wants the meeting a little better.  You know how the world works.  Some people are just bastards and evil ones at that.  Or, they’re actually decent, but a bit _too_ decent… in some ways that’s worse, since they mean well, but begin to treat him like a child or focus on what they see as his ‘problem,’ rather than the man himself.”

      “I wager he positively despises that.”

      “And you’d be right.  By nature, everything else aside, Mycroft an introvert, so keeping himself out here, away from people, is actually something he enjoys greatly.  It lets him focus on his work, his own hobbies and interests.  When he wants company, he has Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Charles and me to talk to, as well as a few others from his days in London.  And, he has the people in the village who accept him, much like you said, as an expected character in their social stage play.  But… yes, meetings with Mr. Holmes are something I consider carefully and prepare both him and the other party for well in advance, so it goes well for everyone involved.”

      “And the staff take care of those who try and circumvent your diligence.”

      “Take care of with prejudice.”

      “Yeah, I’ve met Molly’s gun.”

      “She’s got several.”

      “Brilliant.  So, moving forward… just go with his flow, unless it’s clearly unreasonable, treat him like I would anyone else, though maybe with a bit less nonsense since my nonsense can get a bit boisterous, and introverts don’t tend to like that from my experience.”

      “Not bad.  You may survive this yet.”

      “I did a murder mystery weekend for charity once and, not to brag, but I _was_ the last one standing.”

      “Then you and he should have a lot to talk about, especially since, if I remember, while you were loudly announcing the killer’s identity, you forgot about the ‘poison’ in the punch, took a long drink, which turned your tongue blue and became a victim of your own ego.”

      “I have no memory of that.”

      “Should be fun learning your lines, then.  Mr. Holmes likes using large, obscure and hard-to-pronounce words in his books.”

      “Lunchtime yet?  Me need food in very tan belly.”

Anthea shook her head but decided the actor had passed the most critical test, the Mycroft Holmes Character Assessment, so she could set aside her worry that tonight would explode in blood, body parts and archaic Elizabethan epithets.  It appeared Greg Lestrade was very much as her countless hours of research had painted.  A surprisingly normal individual who was professional, but easy to work with and was valued by the executives of film and television studios not only for his bankability, but the lack of drama, scandal and demands that too often plagued stars of his magnitude.

She’d keep her eye on him, and a close one at that, but maybe, just maybe, he’d be one of those rare people who connected with Mycroft, rather than simply bounced off of him, then kept him at arm’s length.  Her client would never admit it, never in a million years, but he _did_ get lonely, at times, and someone near his age that he might phone to share some news or host for a meal might help that a little.  It was probably too much to hope that Mycroft would come to view Greg as a _friend_ , but if she happened to do just that, nobody but her would be the wiser.

      “We have a few minutes.  I’ll show you more of the house, if you like.  It was badly in need of restoration when Mr. Holmes bought it and… well, what can I say?”

      “It’s a picture-perfect creepy murder-asylum?”

      “Exactly.  Do you have any idea how much thought and effort it takes to achieve that look?  Mr. Holmes grew up reading every sort of horror and ghost story and when he saw his chance to actually give himself a home that looks like it’s the backdrop for an Edgar Allen Poe tale?  He leapt on it like a tiger on fresh meat.  It was that or build his own space-colony model, since he also read twenty libraries worth of science fiction, but this seemed more fitting for the countryside.”

      “It’s a good match for the mystery writing bit, too.  Need some inspiration, just wander your own corridors imagining the sorts of vicious murders and whatnot that might happen.”

      “Do you know that scene in _The Primrose Path_ where Bell is walking down a nearly hypnotically-long corridor and he imagines what was going on in the victim’s mind as they were being chased along that very same path to crash through the stained-glass window at the end and fall to their death?”

      “Don’t tell me that’s real.”

      “See for yourself.  It’s not the original stained-glass window at the end, though, so that’s a bit of a let-down.”

      “Oh, had to be changed during the renovation?”

      “Had to be changed when Mr. Holmes threw a weighted mannequin through it to see if the effect was as dramatic as he intended it.  Well, Charles and Mrs. Hudson did the throwing while he stood back and watched, but it was fairly spectacular, nonetheless.”

      “That… that actually doesn’t surprise me for this house.”

      “Nor should it.  It wasn’t nearly as interesting, though, as when they tried to burn Molly at the stake.”

      “What!”

      “It was more a working out the logistics of building a pyre big enough to burn a person, what size and thickness of stake was needed so she just couldn’t snap it or drag the thing out of the ground and dart away, how far away could you see the flames or smoke that might alert the fire service something was amiss… Molly didn’t actually have to be _in_ the fire for that last bit, but she did wear a long, white dress and loose hair to make the effect very dramatic up to the point they tossed a torch onto the wood.  The village had a lovely time watching the whole business.  Mr. Holmes even had a refreshment table set up for a pre-human-bonfire nibble and drinks afterward as a thank you for playing… well, the villagers, who were hiding a big secret and burning to death the person that had discovered it.  That was from _The Soul of Darkness_.  Very good sales for that one in both the mystery and gothic-horror markets.”

      “Oh my god… I worried about being dismembered and burned the first time I came out here!”

      “Dismemberment was another experiment altogether.  Come on, I’ll tell you about it while we take the tour.”

Greg happily hopped out of his seat and waited for Anthea to lead him out of the solarium, feeling more than slightly anxious to carry on with his visit.  Honestly, not a thing he’d heard so far made him any less enthusiastic about the upcoming project.  In fact, his enthusiasm was growing by leaps and bounds.  Not only was Holmes a brilliant writer, but he definitely appreciated a bit of adventure and drama in his life.  This had the potential of being more than a lucrative deal and a career-refreshing role, but… a hell of a lot of fun.

Of course, he could also be completely wrong, and it’d be _him_ racing down an eerie corridor with a crazed author chasing after him, knife in hand and bloodlust in his eyes.  He’d have to ask Charles how much force it took to actually shatter a stained-glass window.  He’d feel properly embarrassed if he crashed into one and it just rattled a bit while he spilled onto the floor.  Might spare his life, though.  It had to be hard to hold a righteous bloodlust in place when you were laughing at a berk who was just humiliated by a few weedy panes of colored glass…


	10. Chapter 10

      “Ah, there you are, Anthea.  Escorting Mr. Lestrade for a tour of the house?”

Greg turned and smiled at the sound of Mycroft’s voice, which was welcoming, but ever-so-slightly laced with curiosity about what stories might have been shared in his absence and, also, a touch of hesitance as if he was concerned the tour might not have been a pleasant one.

      “It’s more this sad actor made a run for it and I chase him to make certain he didn’t steal anything valuable.”

That it took Mycroft a half-second to realize Anthea was joking was just too perfect, to Greg’s amused mind.

      “Ah, a noble cause, indeed. Mr. Lestrade, if you have exhausted your desire to raid my antiquities for the benefit of your accounts, might I offer you some lunch?”

Anthea smiled smugly at Greg’s ‘I’m watching you’ gesture and took her leave of the two men who, hopefully, would have a genial lunch and simply get to know each other a little better.  This was, by no means, Mycroft’s strength, and she had offered to stay and… moderate… but he’d declined, so she could only hope the few suggestions she’d given would be enough for this to be successful for both men.  Somehow, given her recent words with the actor, she suspected it would…

      “Lunch sounds great, actually.  I’ve sampled Mrs. Hudson’s baked goods, so I have no doubt we’ll be served something delicious.”

      “An astute analysis.  Do follow me.  I would ask, how have you enjoyed your tour?”

Greg made note of the slightly tensing of posture and tone, strengthening his theory that Mycroft was a little worried about his answer.

      “This house is amazing.  I’ve never seen anything like it except on a film set and those had nothing on this for grandeur and presence.  I’ve always wondered if places like this actually existed except on the screen or in a book… I’m glad at least one does.”

      “Oh… that is very kind of you to say.”

Definitely worried I didn’t like your house, Mr. Holmes. I may not be a real detective, but I can see the tiniest of pleased smiles, no matter how hard the person doing the smiling is trying to hide it.

      “And I’m not surprised that it makes an appearance in some of your books.  Anthea showed me a few places where a scene from one of your novels takes place and… I have to admit that you really did a brilliant job of describing the setting perfectly.  Absolutely captured the feel of the room or corridor or piece of furniture.  I honestly never would have believed the kraken coat rack the murderer used in _Death has Many Faces_ was real!  It seemed to unique, so completely barmy that it had to be a figment of your imagination.  Where on Earth did you find it?”

Yes, smile more openly, Mr. Holmes.  And, as you’re studying my features to see if I’m lying, you’ll see that I’m not.  That fucking thing is a work of art.  A weird bit of art lifted from a Bosch painting, but art, nonetheless.

      “It _is_ most intriguing, is it not?  My maternal grandfather was a furniture restorer by trade and, once, he was called to an old manor home, not entirely unlike this one, to refinish a variety of items, for the gentleman who owned the house was marrying and his bride had rather specific ideas about the condition of her surroundings.  Apparently, also, the future lady of the house declared that the coat stand was to be taken away so her eyes never again had to look upon its hideousness.  Grandfather adopted the poor, maligned artifact and it became a fond member of our family furnishings.”

      “I’m glad it didn’t end in the rubbish!  Must have been a fairly boring bride who didn’t want this in their house.  Maybe it’s not to everyone’s taste, but at the very least, it’s something to inspire a bit of conversation and you’d think the lady of a fine house would enjoy having it on hand if only for that reason.”

      “A valid point.  Especially if the lady in question has little in her own conversational repertoire from which to pluck a suitable topic when the need arises, as I suspect was the case with this woman.  She…”

      “Go ahead.  Reveal her shame.”

      “She wanted an entire room done in yellow.  Everything.  Nothing was to be left… un-yellowed.”

Which was, apparently, very much not aligned with the Mycroft Holmes School of Color Sensibilities.

      “No!  Not yellow!”

      “I am happy you are as revolted as was I when I heard the tale.  An accent cushion, perhaps, or delicate yellow flowers in the wallpaper, but… the idea of an entire room adorned in the color of urine is utterly loathsome.”

      “Maybe she thought it was buttery?  Who doesn’t like a nice bit of butter of something warm and tasty.  A good scone, some toast, some perfectly-prepared potatoes…”

      “Hmmmm… not a perspective I had considered, though I remain opposed most vigorously to the concept.”

Greg grinned at how utterly serious Mycroft was about this and felt certain that the man would launch into an angry diatribe against the décor if invited to anyone’s home that had the unfortunate honor of sporting yellow as its primary decorating theme.  Or had disappointing doorknobs, since Mycroft made a point of giving a quick buffing to several along the corridor, as well as running his fingers across the surface of the massive sideboard that sported some elaborate and murder-heavy pieces of sculpture.

      “I would expect no less.  And… I have to say, you’ve got good color balance in this house, from what I’ve seen.  I spend a lot of time talking to set designers and art directors, so I know how important it is for atmosphere and selling a viewpoint to get the colors right.”

      “Oh… thank you.  It… it is a scheme I have found pleasing.  No shade or tone more flagrant than others.  In general, I tend to avoid color flagrancy whenever possible.”

      “I think that’s good advice for anyone.  Won’t catch me walking about in a garish yellow tie or sunshine-y bowler hat, for example.”

      “That would… no, I cannot even contemplate such a thing.  Fortunately, we are arrived and may focus on more agreeable topics.”

Mycroft opened the large pocket doors to the dining room which Greg was happy to see maintained the same ambience as the rest of the house, including a long table adorned with large, intricate candelabras and ornately carved chairs.

      “Do have a seat, Mr. Lestrade.  I shall ring for Mrs. Hudson to serve.”

      “I’m actually surprised she didn’t insist I be fed in the kitchen like house’s faithful hound.”

      “There… _may_ have been some discussion as to what was the appropriate setting for our little chat.”

      “I knew it.  Can’t blame her, though.  She did get watch me eat a piece of cake with my hands, so probably thinks my table manners were something I lost along the way in life, like my flexibility and my ability to drink cheap lager.”

      “Cake… with your… hands?”

Mycroft’s expression, to Greg’s mind, was exactly what he’d expect of someone who’d seen the aftermath of him drinking too much cheap lager.  He’d seen it himself, before. In the mirror.  In the morning.  With his head pounding out its recrimination like the drummer of a punk rock band.

      “Umm… it was sort of a going-away piece.  I’d had one, properly consumed with a fork, then was taking my leave and snatched another since she was walking by with the tray that had a few cut pieces left, beckoning me sexily.  I shall not, however, use my fingers for lunch unless it’s for a universally accepted eat-with-your-fingers food product such as bread, chips or a biscuit.”

      “Bread is somewhat assured, but neither chips nor biscuits are scheduled to make an appearance.”

      “Pizza?”

      “That, also, is not on today’s menu.”

      “Then there’s another off my list!  I’ve tried to eat pizza with knife and fork, but I can’t.  I just can’t.  It hurts my soul.”

      “Dear me… that is not a condition I advocate for good health.”

      “Then, are you a finger-pizza man or a fork-pizza man?”

      “I… I do prefer to use a knife and fork.”

      “Well, that couldn’t be more perfect.  One fingerer and one forker.  Though… fingerer isn’t really something I should boast about in public and the right accent turns forker into something not to boast about, either.  Or, maybe to boast a _lot_ about, depending on the intention and ego of the person being referenced.  This is why I should leave words to you.  They just get me into trouble.”

Mycroft seemed almost embarrassed by his tiny snort of laughter and Greg waggled his eyebrows to make himself seem even more ridiculous, which earned him a bent eye from Mrs. Hudson as she arrived with their soup.

      “You just say the word, Mr. Holmes, and I’ll toss that one out on his ear.  Manners of a dog, and don’t believe otherwise.”

Mrs. Hudson had heard her employer laugh before, but it was generally a quiet, reserved sound, very much unlike the hearty chuckle she received for her words, along with Greg’s satisfied giggle.

      “Wonderful.  Already the nonsense is starting.  I suspected as much.  Well, if either of you is wearing your soup bowl like a hat when I come back, don’t expect even a bite of anything sweet once you’re done with lunch.”

      “How about a tea kettle, Mrs. Hudson?  Can I wear one of those as a hat?  You’ve got one in the kitchen large enough for my thick head, if I remember correctly.”

Greg covered his soup bowl as Mrs. Hudson made a move to snatch it away, snickering that he was fully retuned to the age of five.

      “Oh, might I… yes, I believe I would look most fashionable in a red, conical wimple sort of thing.  Or… perhaps not red.  A respectable green might suffice.”

Greg stopped snickering long enough to nod sagely at Mycroft’s addition to his silliness, then grinned cheekily at Mrs. Hudson, who made certain her back was to her employer when she gave Greg a ‘well done’ wink.

      “Both of you will be the death of me.  I’ll die twice!  That’s not a fate fit for woman nor beast.  Now, don’t let your soup get cold because I won’t bring out hot food if there’s cold soup left in these bowls.”

This time, both Greg and Mycroft nodded sagely, then shared another laugh after the housekeeper left the dining room with one final glare directed at each of them in turn.

      “Good to know, Mr. Holmes, I’m not the only one who’s seen _Over the Garden Wall_.”

      “I appreciate the story, as well as the animation, though it was not explicitly crafted for the adult audience.  It is a pleasant thing to view on the odd rainy day when… when a more calming form of entertainment is to my taste.”

      “It’s well done, that’s for certain.  I’ve told my agent that I’d love to do an animated film someday.  That and, maybe, some audio work.  There’s a lot of brilliant radio plays and audio dramatizations being made now and that sounds like a challenge I’d love to take on.”

      “Truly?”

      “You sound surprised.”

      “I am.  A man of your status in the film industry… doing a radio play?”

      “The scale of a project or the fee isn’t really important to me, Mr. Holmes.  It’s about what satisfies me as an actor.  What challenges me and gives me a real sense of accomplishment.  I listen to a lot of what’s being produced now and what’s been done in the past and try to imagine how the performer approached their role.  How they made their choices and for what reasons.  It’s a different form of acting and I’ve never tried it.  There’s definitely a lot of appeal in that.”

      “I… I very much enjoy listening to audio performances.  I have a large collection of them, actually.”

      “Really?  That’s wonderful, what I’d like to have someday.   Sit back, close my eyes, and just listen to an old favorite or discover something new I’ve been dying to hear.  You’re a lucky man, Mr. Holmes.”

Greg happily sampled his soup and missed Mycroft tapping the rim of the soup bowl at the proverbial north, south, east and west points of the compass while he scrutinized his guest.  He had not been certain about Gregory Lestrade, even after Thursday’s bit of theatre.  His instincts and observations told him the man would excel in the role of Diogenes Bell, however… his instincts for who was this person as a _man_ were not firmly fixed on a decision.  He could accept, reluctantly, that an individual could be a talented actor, though a distasteful person, and had worried slightly about the brashness and open geniality of the man currently enjoying Mrs. Hudson’s excellent tomato bisque.  A truly talented actor could, potentially, fool him into thinking he was someone of character and interest, at least for a brief time.

Today had been entirely about settling his own mind about the basic character of the actor and, so far… his original instincts seemed to have been correct.  A man of surprising interests and a talent for conversation, with both humor and insight.  A person who took a serious approach to his work and enjoyed a challenge. This was not the individual he had imagined from the insipid films in which Lestrade appeared.  And his appetite was certainly a hearty one, which would make his housekeeper positively giddy.

      “Mrs. Hudson certainly doesn’t need to worry about cold soup with me!  This is delicious… it amazes me how some people have the talent to turn the stuff I see at the market into delicacies like this.  I can make a mess of heating a cold carton of takeaway.”

      “Individual talents are rather like films, I suppose. Some are worthwhile and impactful, others far less so.”

      “I’d agree with that.  Though, in fairness, a great personal talent is pointless if it’s not used and even the simplest talent can make a true difference if it’s effectively applied.”

Greg gave himself a small +1 in his win column as he watched Mycroft absentmindedly wag a spoon at him.  The fact it was only one of three spoons next to the soup bowl, each similarly sized, but with a different decorative pattern did not diminish the victory.  Besides, there were also three forks, three knives, a small toast rack with various cloth napkins on offer and two distinct sets of stemware – one set with clean, elegant lines and a second of heavy cut crystal.  Fortunately, his own setting was a touch less complex.

      “An interesting point and one with which I have personal experience.”

      “Oh, you’ve got a hidden talent you’d like to share, Mr. Holmes?”

Maybe it was a bit inappropriate to give Mycroft a ‘look,’ but Greg gave him a properly scandalous one anyway and found it simply in character with the man that Mycroft’s face contorted into a true and proper look of serious contemplation as he thought through the question.

      “I have a number of them, actually, but I was thinking more of my brother, Sherlock.  He has a wealth of valuable talents, as well as frivolous ones, however… he has only in recent years begun to make any appreciable use of them.”

      “Younger brother?”

      “Yes, very much so on some days.”

      “Let me guess, it took him a long time to find himself and his place in the world.”

      “Precisely.  It is an old and rather clichéd story, but clichés are sometimes extant for excellent reasons.”

      “What did he finally settle on?”

Mycroft took a moment to ring for Mrs. Hudson to take away the soup course, then smiled in a way that Greg didn’t understand, but it was a smile, so he assumed good news was on the way.

      “He is a consulting detective.”

      “What?”

      “Sherlock is a consulting detective.  He offers his services to private clients and New Scotland Yard detectives.”

      “A consulting detective… your brother is Diogenes Bell?  You modeled your character on your baby brother?”

This smile was as enigmatic as the first, but Greg felt confident the reason for it would be as fascinating as the basis for the first.

      “The other way around, actually.  Sherlock has a brilliant mind, a keen eye for observation and a wealth of scientific talents, however, his demeanor is… well, it is not, shall we say, one to inspire cordial interactions with most of the human species, unless they are supernaturally patient and allow him time to peek from behind his barricades and show his true heart.  Unfortunately, this has made it difficult for him to find a career path that brings him the satisfaction and interest he craves.  Sherlock claims never to read a word I write, yet began to ask questions about my new protagonist not long after the first few books in that series were published.  They were couched in insults, as is his way, but they demonstrated a clear fascination with the concept behind this person and the path they had crafted for themselves.”

      “One your brother wondered if he could follow, too.”

      “Well spotted.  And, to his credit, he _has_ been most successful.  His acquired a flatmate somewhat recently, as well, who has become a willing and able assistant with the work and encouraged Sherlock to broaden the scope of the cases he is willing to accept.  They have become quite the team, in point of fact, and… well, I suspect they are becoming a team for more than a simple business relationship.”

Mrs. Hudson’s eyes widened slightly as she entered the room with the lunch entrée, but she was greatly pleased by what she was hearing.  Mr. Holmes actually seemed to be… relaxed.  At least, as relaxed as the poor man ever was and clearly enjoying himself.  It was such a shame her employer had an aversion to most of the human race.  He had more to offer the world than his books, but so few ever learned that fact.  Perhaps, though, this Greg Lestrade might come to be a more regular feature of Mr. Holmes’s life.  That silly writer needed a friend, whether he thought so or not, and that cheeky bastard Lestrade might be a good choice.  He was certainly keeping Mr. Holmes engaged and chatty, which was something of a rarity…

      “Don’t forget that skinny mass of curls is invading next weekend, Mr. Holmes.  At least for Saturday. I’m hoping he gets bored and leaves because… oh, he flusters the entire household with his nonsense.”

Mycroft nodded knowingly, but Greg was fairly certain Mrs. Hudson’s tone indicated the household didn’t mind the flustering nearly as much as she let on.

      “Yes, apparently Doctor Watson has been promised a weekend away from London to, I believe it was, breathe fresh air and have some actual dirt under his feet.  I have no idea why the dirt element is a necessary thing, but the man _was_ in the Army, so I suppose one must allow for strange fancies.”

Both Mrs. Hudson and Greg heroically kept a straight face, though Greg did appreciate Mrs. Hudson needing to steady herself a moment by grabbling his shoulder.

      “That we must, sir.  And, since you both did the soup proud, expect chocolate when you’re ready.”

This time, Greg _did_ laugh, as Mycroft gleefully rubbed his hands together and laughed harder when Mycroft adopted the most perfect naughty-boy grin a man their age could muster.

      “I must confess, Mr. Lestrade, that I am somewhat enamored of Mrs. Hudson’s chocolatey concoctions.”

      “If you weren’t, I’d say you were loony!  Maybe I should find a cook to hire.  Not that I’m home often, but that would certainly make the experience a far happier one than when I’m skulking about the local eateries and making friends with London’s delivery drivers.”

      “I _was_ most pleased when she applied for the position.  In any case, I do hope you a fond of the fish.  Saturday’s lunch is always graced by fish.”

      “Oh, I can murder a good piece of fish. Grew up near the sea and there was plenty to be had for cheap, so mum cooked more than her fair share.  I’m going to wager it’ll need a touch of salt, though, not because Mrs. Hudson is too light-handed, but because Mum may have been a little heavy with it and… ok, what’s wrong?”

Because you’re making that ‘oh dear’ face, Mr. Holmes, and appearing a bit unsettled by something.  Could it be…

      “I set the salt cellar down in the wrong place, didn’t I?”

      “It… it should be nearer the pepper.”

      “Because they’re a set.”

      “Yes.”

      “Something I should have thought of myself.  Here we go.”

Greg moved the salt the three-thumbs width required to put it back at its original position, then kept his eyes on Mycroft who made nudging motions until he had it precisely oriented according to Mycroft’s specifications.

      “So, tell me about this business with your brother’s flatmate.  I’m always open to a bit of romantic gossip.”

Another small tendril of confidence threaded through Mycroft’s bones and made conscious note of its soothing effects.  He was not unaware of the uniqueness of his nature and how it was perceived by others, but his new acquaintance seemed surprisingly unperturbed.  It was… refreshing.

      “Then, with gossip shall I thee regale.”

This time it was Greg rubbing his hands together in anticipation and Mycroft settled in to enjoy his lunch and the simple act of conversation.  It was not entirely what he had expected for their meeting, but it was exceedingly illuminating.  And, frankly, most delightful…

__________

      “Well, I have to thank you for this, Mr. Holmes.  I’ve had a great time and learned a lot about the character.”

Greg stood in the doorway of the great house, trying to remember the last time he’d enjoyed an evening to this degree.  Nothing but a meal and a long chat, but… it was nice.  Very nice, indeed.

      “And I thank you, Mr. Lestrade, for coming.  I do hope you will feel free to contact me with any questions about… any aspect of the novel.  I know once we are further along in the process, we shall speak and meet often, however, I am a firm advocate of long-range planning.”

      “That sounds great, actually.  I’m sure I’ll make use of your kind offer.  So… I’ll be meeting with Anthea and Anderson tomorrow.  Anything you want me to pass along or focus on?”

      “Hmmm… I cannot think of anything, however, should something strike me…”

      “I’ll text you with my mobile number and…”

      “I do not text.”

      “Oh… ok, hold on.”

Greg patted himself down, then made a scribbling motion, feeling completely unsurprised when Mycroft drew an exquisite pen and small notebook from his jacket pocket.

      “Write this down…”

Making sure Mycroft had his mobile number correctly scribed, Greg decided not to ask for Mycroft’s own, suspecting that if the author didn’t offer, he was ready to or wasn’t particularly happy about receiving unexpected phone calls.

      “Thank you, Mr. Lestrade. This is most helpful.”

      “Could you… how about Greg, since we’re going to be working closely together?”

      “I… I may have that familiarity?”

      “Of course!  I’d appreciate it, actually.”

      “I see.  And… are you hoping to refer to me as Mycroft?”

Uh… maybe not when you pose it that particular way.

      “Well, that’s not for me to decide and I am certainly not one to impose.”

      “Yes, you _have_ demonstrated some degree of propriety.”

Which was in no manner saying that ‘Mycroft’ was on offer.  Ok, that would be a challenge for another day.

      “Part of my charm.  Goodbye, Mr. Holmes.  I have no doubt we’ll be speaking again soon.”

Greg made to lift his hand to shake, then lowered it, seeing the slight look of worry skitter across Mycroft’s face.  Instead he smiled brightly and nodded his farewell, before turning and walking towards his still-hired semblance of a vehicle.  He had his hand on the door handle before Mycroft’s voice hit his ears.

      “Mr. … Gregory?”

      “Yes?”

      “I… do call me Mycroft.  It seems the equitable thing.”

Equitable wasn’t the worst thing in the world, to Greg’s experience, and it was clear that the concession had been a large one on Mycroft’s part.

      “Thank you, I’d be honored.  Until we meet again.”

      “Yes.  Yes, until then.”

This new smile on Mycroft’s face was one Greg honestly valued, since it was one that said Mycroft was feeling rather buoyant at his small gesture of… well, not of friendship, perhaps, but of someting more than nodding acquaintance.  But, in fairness, to Mycroft the gesture had not been a small one.  Somehow, Greg suspected, it wouldn’t be as long as he might have predicted until he heard his mobile ring.  And, frankly, he couldn’t say he was anything but happy for it…


	11. Chapter 11

_ It is him!  I told you it was, Lydia. _

_ Greg!  Can I have your autograph? _

_ Just one quick snap, Greg? _

_ I’ve seen all your films, Greg! _

Greg had held out a tiny hope that his standard leaving for an appointment earlier than was necessary wouldn’t _actually_ be necessary this time, but, apparently, he couldn’t ever be on the major streets of London for more than a moment or two before he was recognized.  Then, it was slow going towards his target as he signed things, smiled for photos, chatted a moment with every person who wanted to speak to him… it was part of the price he had to pay, he knew that well enough, but it had been somewhat glorious to spend a couple of days in Royston Vasey’s sister village where he’d been left blessedly alone.

Of course, he also hadn’t realized that the village _had_ recognized him, but collectively decided that they’d treat him much like Mycroft – just another chap toddling about who was affable enough if you just let them toddle and didn’t make a fuss.  However, once word got around that he had returned his car and checked out of his room at the inn, Molly was dispatched to drag him to the pub where a stack of various items awaited his signature, people were dressed in their go-to-church clothes to have a photo and the old birds checked, with both pinches and photos, that his arse was as succulent as they’d certainly not seen in any of his films that they _may_ have rented a few times mostly _because_ of his succulent arse and how it moved when it was doing something particularly filthy on camera.

However, it was still different.  It wasn’t the same as the fans out here on the street or at a premiere.  They weren’t awed by him or overly excited… it was more like ‘oh, well, might as well have a snap with that fellow in case he isn’t making his way back here soon.  Nice little keepsake of the old chap, who wasn’t quite as dreadful as Hollywood types are supposed to be.  Besides maybe I can sell it someday on the Internet and make a few quid.’  He could see why Mycroft had a successful visit when he ventured out of Dracula’s Castle and how he could feel comfortable around that many people.  It just took the right people and, sometimes, life brought you a bit of luck in that area…

Now, if only Anderson hadn’t been a complete twat and agreed to meet at one of the little off-the-beaten-path restaurants they usually visited when they were here, and not something ridiculously priced and right in the thick of where he’d be recognized in a heartbeat, he could actually be eating right now and not just stepping inside and waving at the crowd who’d followed him on the street.  Just for that, the twat’s wallet was going to scream in pain…

      “Ah, Mr. Lestrade.  So good to see you, sir, and looking very smart, I must say.  Your party is waiting, if you care to follow me.”

Thank you, Mr. Manager or Owner or whoever you are who waved off the young woman who is apparently your normal hostess so you could fawn over me.  Hell is other people…

      “Oh, look, Anthea.  It’s _Gregory_.”

      “ _Gregory_ , darling, come and have a seat.  We’ve been absolutely dying for you to arrive.”

And these two people were particularly demonic versions of hell.

      “Fuck you and you, madam, can have a heaping helping of fuck you since you apparently talked to Mycroft and… you’re evil.”

Making certain to be polite and thank the well-dressed smiling man still loitering at his side, Greg pulled out a chair, stole Anthea’s glass of champagne and drained it in one gulp.

      “And why are we here, anyway?  There’s countless places that serve food and not plates decorated with a few wisps of organic matter, and I can walk there, browse a few shops, eat in peace and actually enjoy myself.  The only reason you meet in a place like this is… why are you two smiling?  Oh, fuck me, this time.  How many photographers are hovering about getting material to push into the entertainment news tonight?”

      “Ummm… a few.  After I talked to Anthea, I phoned the studio to re-confirm that this was going forward, and they decided to get a bit of a jump on publicity.  So, we’re having a nice meal with the agent of Mr. Mycroft Holmes to talk about the upcoming film, the first ever of one of his books, which will star the old and flabby Greg Lestrade.”

      “Bloody perfect.  I’m so glad I came back to London for this.  I should have flown on to LA and dropped a vomit bag out of the plane right on both of your heads.”

Anthea made the time-honored gesture of using a hand to bounce her exquisitely-styled waves and ended it with a gesture that might have been interpreted by the unknowing as a poorly-performed peace sign.

      “I had my hair done for this meeting, so you would have been killed by my special ninja brigade the moment you stepped off the plane.  Besides, you had your country holiday, Gregory dear.  Now, you have to pay for it with a little work.  And, I think we’ll have another bottle of champagne, since you guzzled mine like it didn’t cost more than my dress.”

      “Holiday?  What with you and Molly threatening me within an inch of my life and going about in a death mobile, I think that ‘holiday’ is the wrong word for it!  And order what you like… Anderson’s paying.”

      “Nope!  I’m poor.  And, I don’t have my wallet.”

      “Why the fuck not?”

      “You were coming.”

      “Wonderful.  My agent the scrounger.  The studio can pay, then.  This is their publicity stunt, after all.”

That started Anderson and Anthea waving for the wine steward to take advantage of the studio’s bottomless bank account.

      “The both of you are shameless.”

      “You get all the perks, Greg, not me, your poor as-aforementioned impoverished agent.  And Anthea works in books!  Publishing houses don’t lay out the cash like the film studios, do they Anthea?”

      “Pfft… no.  They expect people to be more genteel and not grub for perks.  But, bugger that.  I want my champagne and the most expensive food this hideous dump offers.  Oh, and cake.  I saw something go by on a tray that looked sinful and I need a little sin in my life.”

Greg wondered if he was even needed for this meeting, but realized that he was being pimped for perks so trying to make a getaway would only get him tackled and chained to his chair until the two agents had their fill of luxury.

      “Ghouls.  Actually, I would think Mycroft would be peeved if he learned that this was going to be splashed over the sordid news programs I suspect he hates with the intensity of the heart of the sun.”

After several moments of ‘oh, how cute,’ ‘ _Mycroft_ would be peeved,’ and mocking laughter, Greg stole Anderson’s champagne, drank it and poured the last drops of the bottle into the empty glass to serve as his only friend in this conversation.

      “For your information, cash cow… I already discussed this situation with Mr. Holmes and got his approval.”

      “What?  No no no, Anthea, there’s no way Mycroft agreed to this sad bit of pantomime.”

      “He did, when I reminded him that the film would need publicity and the more I did, the less he’d have to do, which delighted him to no end.  Frankly, if we can get one interview out of him on this, I’ll be surprised, but just putting the idea in his head was enough to get him to gleefully agree to me having a high-powered lunch meeting for the cameras to catch and, maybe, giving a few quotable sentences to some reporter who might happen by and find that sort of thing interesting.”

      “You’ve already done it, haven’t you?”

      “Naturally.  They’re just lingering to get some video to run and a few photos to add to the article that will appear in the paper tomorrow.  I have been a very busy bee today, in point of fact.  Alerted our publisher to get with the studio so they can talk new covers for reissues of _The Devil’s in the Details_ , and what sort of back-cover copy and forward they might want.  Of course, Mycroft will have final approval like he always does, but I think we can get him in the spirit of things to accept something a bit more flamboyant that his usual preference.  And we’ll likely do a box-set holiday printing of all the Diogenes Bell books.  That sort of thing always does a brisk business, even with ebook sales soaring, but with the publicity from the film stoking the fire, it could run through two printings and, fingers crossed, settle into the main market for year-round sales.  I’ve wanted to do one for awhile, but His Naysaying Majesty was in quite the fine set of spirits when I phoned, so it seems this year is _the_ year.  He’s always against anything, as he sees it, gauche and ostentatious, so we’re jumping on this while his mood is a good one.  Want to let me know the reason _why_ his mood is such a very good one, Gregory darling?”

With two people grinning at him, smugly, at that, Greg hoped that the restaurant offered more than champagne, because he could feel the need for a good six or seven glasses of whisky beginning to brew in his veins.

      “We had a nice lunch!  That was it!  Chatted about some common interests, like good radio drama and old films, gossiped about his brother… just a nice, pleasant lunch.”

      “Uh huh… let me fill in a bit, _Gregory_ …”

      “Will you stop calling me that, demon woman?”

      “No.  At least not today.  Tomorrow, it’ll be boring, so I’ll have my fun while I can.  In any case, Mycroft almost never entertains people he doesn’t know and for him to actually have enjoyed himself… how naked did you get and is there video?”

Oh good, the Dastardly Duo were sniggering at him.  Thank you, Mr. Wine Steward for being prompt with the champagne and for first pouring a glass for the person who seems to need it most.

      “Funny.  In the meaning of the word that is precisely the _opposite_ of the meaning of the word.  However, if you’re that desperate, the old dears in the village took a few up-close snaps of my arse and I’m sure they’ll let you have a look for a tidy fee.”

      “That’ll be the knitting ladies.  They do enjoy their tea and scandal.  Or gin and scandal, as the case may be.  They meet formally on Wednesday evenings and Mr. Holmes actually sits with them now and again when he’s at the pub, and listens in on their conversation.  He says they’re a valuable source of inspiration, but I suspect it’s more he’s got old biddy sensibilities for the sordid and tawdry, meaning he likes it far more than he’d let his grandchildren know, not that they exist, and has his own share of well-thumbed seedy paperback romances under his bed, near his chamberpot and slippers, for when he has a hard time sleeping.”

The image of a nightshirt-wearing, stocking-capped Mycroft, propped up in a massive bed with a Mills & Boons romance in his hand made Greg’s mind happy, partly because he could genuinely believe it wasn’t a figment of Anthea’s overheated imagination.

      “Well, for your information, Mycroft didn’t take any photos of my arse and I didn’t put it out there to show, anyway.  We just… talked.  Spent some time discussing Bell, which was helpful, but mostly just talked as any two people might over lunch.  Except, of course, you two people who talk about horrid things to make my life miserable.”

Anderson’s rude gesture was hidden from potential cameras by the menu he was holding, but he gave it proudly nonetheless.  Actually he was more than happy to let Greg vent a little about this rather minor set-up for a press opportunity.  Part of his job was making certain his client had what he needed to keep from really exploding from stress and little spurts of steam, now and then, kept the boiler’s seams tightly intact.

      “It’s a living, Greg.  It’s why you hired me.  That and my blinding good looks which keeps the fangirls, and fanboys, distracted when you’re trying to buy new socks or arguing with the postman over having your mail crinkled when he pushes it through the slot.”

      “I only did that once and it was the photo Mum had enlarged of her and Dad’s trip to Belize.”

      “Which you shrieked at when you saw it because they were in swimsuits and I had to console you while you had a little cry.”

      “It scarred me.  For life.”

      “That was only two years ago.”

      “Two long years of life with thick, thick scars.”

Anthea watched the two men go back and forth and was content with what she saw.  A good relationship based on mutual understanding that had a solid history behind it.  It bode well for future negotiations and matters of business since she could talk to either of them and wouldn’t have too much worry that the other would respond in a completely unexpected way when they were brought into the conversation.  Normally, you didn’t personally interact with another agent’s client, at least not to discuss business, but this was going to be different.

Mycroft… liked Greg Lestrade.  He didn’t use the term and wouldn’t admit to it if she broached the subject, but the evidence was there.  He’d actually used Greg’s name!  Not ‘that person’ or ‘the actor’ or even ‘Mr. Lestrade,’ but let ‘Gregory’ slide off his tongue as if he’d done it for a hundred years.  And Martha had been bowled over by how easily their conversation had flowed.  Greg, somehow, found the right wavelength to resonate with someone who defied resonating with almost everyone on the planet and it was clear, clear as crystal, that Mycroft had enjoyed that.  Enjoyed every moment of it and Mycroft Holmes having a nice time with another person was reason for celebration.  Further, if her suspicions were correct, her dear Mr. Holmes was not going to let this new connection simply wither on the vine and die.  His voice sounded positively _lively_ on the phone…

      “If you two are done with your dreary domestic bickering, can we order?  Don’t forget, Anderson, we’re meeting with the reporter from _GQ_ for drinks later and I want to have enough time to drain as many glasses of excellent wine as I can from his wallet.”

      “Ooh!  Right… forgot about that.  It’s an upscale place, too, so there’s sure to be some fine vintages in their cellar.”

      “WHAT!  Why… why on Earth are you two meeting with _GQ_?”

Greg was used to Anderson giving him a disappointed nod, but thought it was somewhat unfair for him to suffer it now in stereo.

      “Greg, my old and doddery friend… it’s called publicity.”

      “Publicity for what?  The film isn’t even past the ‘hey, let’s make a film!’ stage!”

      “Actually… it _is_ past that stage.  With you on board officially, though we do still have to negotiate the contract, but it’ll be fairly much your standard one, so no surprises there… but, anyway, I’ve got the green light to start talking up the film and pushing you in front of more cameras and microphones.  The wardrobe department is starting on sketches for Bell, so we’re going to discuss his look as it appears in the novels and how that might translate to your scruffy self.”

      “You… you have no idea what the studio is going to settle on!”

      “Who cares?  By the time the film is on screen, nobody will remember this little story, but it _will_ be another first step in getting the word out.  Besides, it’ll be a foot in the door to drag this bloke back for a full interview with photos of you modeling some amazing clothes that I can usually negotiate into a few new suits for me, as a side bonus.”

      “Pirates!  Both of you, sailing the high seas, plundering and pillaging every fucking port you visit.”

The matching ‘well, duh, yes’ looks on Anderson’s and Anthea’s faces made Greg suspicious they were separated at birth when one of their eggs was stolen from their dragon-mommy’s nest.

      “I don’t know why you’re complaining, Greg, since it’s me and Anthea meeting with _GQ_ today and not you.  Your old-lady-approved arse will be on a plane, so you can be in LA tomorrow for a lovely suite of interviews for the film you _actually_ have about to land on screen and I’ll meet you Tuesday at breakfast to discuss the other obligations you have on deck for the week.”

      “Ugh… I hate my life.”

      “No, you love your life.  You just hate the things you have to do to actually _live_ your life.  Look on the bright side.  We’re flying back to London next weekend and you’re actually here for awhile doing publicity, so you can purge LA from your blood and be properly British again.”

      “Few days off before that publicity barrage begins?  Please please please?”

      “Anthea, is yours this needy and lazy?”

      “About publicity?  On that score, I’m lucky, as mine is renown in the industry for not doing publicity.  Everyone knows he simply won’t, so nobody even tries anymore.”

      “You’re so lucky.”

      “I know… but I pay for it in other areas.  _Many_ other areas.”

      “And they think they have the hard lives.”

      “Poor lambs have no idea.  None at all.”

Greg honestly wasn’t certain who had the harder job, Anderson or Anthea, but since they each chose their misery, and were enjoying the hell out of his, they deserved it all and more.

      “I hope both of you get hemorrhoids.  Now, about my few days of rest…”

Anderson gave a BAFTA-worthy put-upon sigh and rolled his eyes in a long arc to finally, after a millennium, meet Greg’s.

      “Let me see what I can do.”

      “Don’t trouble yourself too much.”

      “Oh, believe me, I won’t.  But, I should be able to schedule things so you can lay on your sofa for a few days, in your track pants, eating food from a carton, while you watch the telly.”

      “That sounds… beautiful.  I honestly may cry.”

Anderson shook his head sadly, but was already mentally adding a day or so to the two completely uncommitted days he’d built into Greg’s schedule.  Most people wouldn’t expect something like giving interviews and doing photo shoots to be stressful or tiring, but it dragged his friend’s energy down, and if Greg needed a few days to build it back up, then a few days he would have. 

      “You in your at-home garb eating greasy takeaway is _not_ beautiful.  It’s soul-crushing but, since nobody has to see it but you, it doesn’t really matter.  What _does_ matter is that the server is giving our table the eye, so let’s let the poor man do his job and make a start on getting some lunch into us.  Anthea, what looks good?”

      “I’m thinking the lamb medallions, but I could go another way.  Or two ways at once.  God, I’m starving.  I had a muffin for breakfast and it was one of those small ones that you finish before you even realize you’re eating it, so you have an existential crisis before your day is even fully underway.”

      “Then starters it is before we go any further!  And, smile, Greg… you’ve got a few lenses pointed your way and your fans will be crushed if they think you’ve had a lousy lunch.  You’ll have to deal with your standard mailbag being supplemented by food packages and I am _not_ persuading Joanne at the studio mail office to open every single one so we don’t have a repeat of the Key Lime Pie Disaster.”

      “It wasn’t my fault!”

Anderson’s ‘pfft’ bought him a commiserative pat on the hand from his dragon sibling.

      “That’s what the guilty always say, so it was definitely your fault.  I don’t even know what that is, but I know it’s your fault.”

      “Your shoes are ugly, Anthea.”

      “Boo hoo.  Anderson?”

      “Well, that one just had to say on American TV that he’d never tasted a key lime pie.  The studio received thousands of them.  Only a small percentage were actually marked so the kind people handling his mail knew to donate them or… refrigerate them.”

      “Ugh.”

      “That’s one way to put it.  Shit… I’ve made myself want key lime pie, now.  When they’re not moldy and rancid, they’re amazing.  I wonder if that’s on the pudding menu?”

Greg waved over their server and prepared himself for a long lunch with the two most ridiculous people in London.  However… he honestly couldn’t imagine any other people doing a better job of keeping an eye on him or Mycroft.  Sometimes you lucked into the right fit for you and, if you were smart, you didn’t let them go.

      “Greg, show Anthea your patented fingers-through-hair maneuver.  The cameras always love that.”

Even if you wanted to murder them like the brother you never had…


	12. Chapter 12

_ Greg Lestrade’s List of People He Hates _

_ 1.  Philip, the Phallus, Anderson _

_ 2.  See #1 _

Ugh… this was exactly the day he’d expected back in LA.  Get off the plane, throw himself onto his bed for twelve nanoseconds, then be dragged from the bed by studio people to make him look human, push something into his mouth to eat, then push the rest of him in front of the various interviewers and cameras to do his best to sell this new film.  At least he had the evening free to… die.

Which is what he wanted to do right now.  The shower he’d taken had not done a fucking thing to boost his energy which, of course, he shouldn’t have expected given he took a cozy, warm one and those are only good for making you feel cozy and warm which is not advised when you wanted to stay awake awhile to try and get your body back on local time.  Maybe it was time for some food.  Room service wasn’t something he liked ordering, for many reasons not involving feeling like a bit of a berk for being too lazy to saunter down to one of the hotel restaurants, but sauntering would only last about eight steps before he fell face first on the carpet runner in the corridor and that was not how he wanted to spend the rest of his night.  So… room service it would be.

Though, in truth, he didn’t want food.  He also didn’t want to be a fussy toddler, but that’s apparently what he’d become.  It wasn’t the worst fate in the world.  Could be a dung beetle.  Though, to be fair, they seemed fairly happy rolling their balls of dung about, so maybe he shouldn’t pass judgement until he’d chatted with a few of them to know about their lives and standards for contentment.  And now… he’d gone loony.  Couldn’t blame the dung beetles for that because they were off minding their own business and not fiddling with his exhausted brain to make it malfunction.

Coffee?  That was an idea.  Hot, black, tongue-stripping coffee.  Which was not room service’s specialty.  Theirs was sort of… blergh.  It failed on every measurable feature of coffeeness.  Except wetness.  It _was_ wet.  I did have that going for it.  Oh god, he was tired…

And, now, of course, his mobile was ringing.  Probably that shifty dragonborn Anderson checking to see he’d done his schoolwork and there weren’t any notes from the teacher saying he’d been a naughty, slothful boy.

      “Hello?”

      “Socks.”

      “Pardon?”

      “Socks.”

      “I’m… what?”

      “Was I unclear?”

      “I… maybe?”

      “Socks could prove vital.”

      “Are you a spy?”

      “No.  I am a writer.”

      “Wait… Mycroft?”

      “Yes.  Were you unaware of that?”

      “I… maybe?  I haven’t had coffee.”

Which was especially troubling because he needed all of his brain power to talk to a genius!  His brain felt like cold porridge in his head and now he had to appear like… a non-porridge head!  This was going to be hard.

      “Ah, I understand.  The stimulating effect of caffeine should not be underestimated.”

      “Apparently not.  Glad you phoned, though.  Always happy for a chat.  About socks, you say?”

A subject where my storehouse of knowledge is decidedly bare, but faking it is the stock in trade of a many an actor in this business.

      “Yes.”

      “Are we discussing, texture, color, how high they go up your leg…”

Something for which there surely exists a proper term, but it is beyond the ken of plain, porridge-brained folk.

      “Likely all of it.  I realized that in the various descriptions of Diogenes Bell, I did not specify any particular style preferences for socks.  The same is true for underpants, however, as those shall not appear on-screen, the omission is not a catastrophic one.”

Greg jumped and landed on his bed, ignoring that he did it in precisely the way a child might, and propped up his pillows to have some back support for his conversation.  That, right there, proved the lack of childishness, because kids didn’t have to worry about old, dodgy backs giving out the next day because they’d been incautious with either jumping or phone conversation-ing.

      “Well, I admit that after a million years in the industry, I can’t actually say I’ve taken great notice of the socks I’ve been asked to wear or that I’ve noticed them on screen unless revealing them was a plot element of bit of character development.”

      “Hmmmm… I still feel the issue must be addressed.”

      “Then address it we shall!  Of course, it might be more efficient to wait until the wardrobe people pull together some sketches.  Anderson said they were setting about that already.”

      “Yes, so I was informed by Anthea.  That is why it is critical to act.  Once enshrined on paper, ideas are brutally difficult to modify, let alone kill.”

      “Alright, then, what is your vision for the socks of Diogenes Bell.  Which actually sounds like a cracking title for a children’s book, but don’t mind me because I’m not entirely in my right mind at the moment.”

      “Yes, you do seem somewhat scattered of thought.  Is there a particular reason?”

      “Particular, no.  Expected, yes.  I had the overnight flight to LA and then nearly jumped straight into publicity work for the film I have opening… shit, I forgot on which day.  Soon, anyway.  It’s just a nonstop stream of interviews, where the same questions are asked time and again, and posing for photographers.  And I have to stay, or pretend to stay, energetic, engaged, interested…”

      “That sounds positively ghastly.”

      “Can be.  Usually, it’s just boring and draining.  At least I don’t have anything until eleven tomorrow morning, so I can get some rest, which will make all that interesting engaged energy easier to affect.  It’s the job, though.  Part of my contract specifies my publicity obligations and I have to take them as seriously as I would anything else or I can’t really call myself a professional.  Or be happy about my level of commitment to the project.”

      “Hmmmmm…. I see.  Whereas I fully agree that one must fulfill one’s obligations once one has agreed to them, I would simply not agree in the first place and avoid the issue of conscience altogether.”

      “I don’t know how easy that would be, even for me.   Besides, it wouldn’t be fair to the people who worked on the film.  Not the studio executives because bugger them, but the other actors, the director, the crew, all the people who do the technical bits away from the direct filming.  They take pride in their work and it’d be a bit shabby of me to not do my part to get as many people as possible to see the results _of_ that hard work.  All these nonsense interviews and photoshoots really do amplify the visibility of and interest in a film, no matter how ridiculous they seem to me at the time.  And, sadly, I’ve seen a lot of great projects just sink into oblivion because nobody even knew they’d been released.  I couldn’t do that to the people who helped make the film.  I wish I could, sometimes, but I can’t.”

      “Ah.”

      ‘Is that a good ah or a bad ah?“

      “Rather difficult to say, on balance, for, again, you raise a perspective I had not considered.”

      “I can’t say I’d expect you to, really.  The film industry’s shit, it really is, but… not everyone who works in it is and they deserve every break they can get.  Wardrobe people are an example.  Give me your sock wisdom, Mycroft, and I’ll pass it along when I’m able, so they don’t catch flame and fire for something that could have been avoided.”

      “Yes, the very reason for my call.  I feel that argyle is an abomination.”

      “And what else?”

      “I think that is more than sufficient, wouldn’t you agree?”

Actually, whether they itch is more of a concern to me, but the fewer worries I put in your mind, the happier both of us will be.

      “Point taken.  And, I’m fairly certain I can convince them out of the abomination if they try to give it life.”

      “Excellent.”

Oh, maybe just one more concern, because I’m actually having fun with this conversation and prolonging it a bit is certainly no hardship.

      “And no yellow, right?”

      “Why would you even consider that option appropriate?”

      “I don’t, that’s why I’m pre-empting it from even a whisker of discussion.  Though… what’s your opinion on gold.  That old-gold or even-older brass color like you’d see for the fixtures on an antique bureau?”

      “How intriguing a question.”

Was it?  Oh good.  The other option was cheeky and that probably wouldn’t have merited an ‘intriguing.’

      “Need to think on it a touch?”

      “Yes.  I have a number of furnishings in the house with such fittings and I shall study them before giving my final decision.”

      “Very wise.  Any other conditions beside abominable argyle?”

Like itchiness.  Might as well open the dam, now that the trickle has started.

      “I am in a quandary.”

Or, let’s keep it at a trickle and see how that goes.

      “Is it painful?”

      “Not as such, but it is vexing.”

      “Might I know what you’re quandered about?”

      “That is not a word.”

      “What?  About?”

      “No, quandered.”

      “Oh, yeah I suspected that, but it sounded good.”

      “Did it?”

      “Uhh… now, I’m not sure.  I am also, now, in a quandary.  About quandered.”

      “This has become rather dire.”

      “I agree.  The dirosity has escalated sharply.”

      “That, also, is not a word.”

      “Did it sound better than the last one?”

      “I… I would rank them as on par for aural pleasantness.”

      “Ok, then no improvement, but I didn’t lose ground, either.  There’s something to be said for consistency.”

      “True.  For example, I am remarkably consistent in my hatred of argyle.”

      “I will make that my first point of conversation with costume design and wardrobe.  I’m not sure they’d look very spiffy over my calves, in any case.   I do try and get in a bit of football when I can, and I like to walk, hike in nice areas, too, so they’re a bit beefy.  Argyle seems something better suited to a daintier lower leg.”

      “My lower leg is most dainty and it is not flattered by argyle in the slightest.”

The tangents for this conversation are numerous and tangenty, indeed.  The original purpose of this thread is as gone with the wind as Clarke Gable.

      “Perhaps… I think it’s more a Venn diagram sort of business where you have to look at several factors and see what overlaps.  Your daintiness must not coincide with the other argyle-relevant elements.”

      “Yes, one would need to map the variables carefully.”

      “Get Anthea to do it.  She seems the type of be a good variable mapper.  Agents need that sort of skill, I would assume.”

And it would be sweet revenge for one poor pitiful actor who shall remain nameless for the purposes of this vengeful act.

      “Oh, very good.  I shall set her upon the task tomorrow.”

YES!  Whatever re-revenge she wreaks on the unnamed poor pitiful actor will be savage and merciless, but some things are just worth it the loss of blood and flesh.

      “I’m sure she’ll do a great job.  So… get any writing done today?”

      “Writing is done on Tuesday, Thursday and Friday.”

      “Good to have a schedule.  What’s today for, then?”

      “Today is a reading day.  I consider reading to be highly important.”

One of the reasons for the stack of Mills & Boons under your bed.  Which is a mental image a certain still-unnamed actor will ever lose, even from his porridge-filled mind.

      “I agree.  I always have my phone loaded with books to read and drag my Kindle about when I travel.”

      “I _abhor_ electronic books.”

Which is probably why your novels were late going onto the market.  The amount of clawing and scratching the hellfire-spewing dragonwoman likely had to implement to get permission for the books go into that market was something any fan of horror, fantasy or action genres would pay a very good ticket price to see.

      “They’re not for everyone.  In truth, I’d prefer a real book, myself, but I travel so much that it’s hard.  They’re heavy, bulky and I’d probably lose them in hotels, airports… good for the person who finds them, but bad for me.  Digital works for my lifestyle, but if you aren’t gadding about like I am, a proper book might be best.”

      “Interesting.  I suppose I _can_ see the difficulty of traveling with a supply of worthy books.  And to lose one… there are few tragedies so harsh as the loss of a beloved book.”

      “Spoken like a true writer.  Or librarian.”

      “That is my father.”

      “Your dad is a librarian!  That’s brilliant!  That where you got your love of reading and writing?”

      “I have no idea if those traits are genetically-linked.”

Literal and literate have the same root, which is embodied in the man on the other end of this call.

      “Fair point, but I suspect that kids with parents who value reading inspire that in their kids, at least to some degree.”

      “On that, I will agree wholeheartedly.  Our home life was positively brimming with books and the dinner hour was often devoted to discussions about them.”

      “There you have it.  Or, at least, part of it.  It’s probably a bit like the Argyle Conundrum in that there are a lot of factors that play a role, but I do think a home that encourages reading has kids that like to read.  What’s your book of the day?”

      “Today I am enjoying some Walter Miller.”

      “ _A Canticle for Leibowitz_?”

      “Yes, actually.  You have heard of it?”

      “Great book… such a great book.  I don’t know why, but every time I catch an episode of _Babylon 5_ , I think of that book.”

Was that an ‘eep?’  It sounded like an eep, but maybe it was a creak of a chair or someone poked a mouse in a delicate and private location.

      “Oh… you enjoy _Babylon 5_.”

      “Sounds like you do, too.”

      “It… it is a more cerebral program than many of the genre and I found both the story and character arcs most compelling.”

      “Definitely one of the better sci-fi programs out there.  Smart to have a plan for the show, beginning, middle and end, then shut it down when it’s over.  No dragging it on and on when you’d done what you set out to do.  Sort of like a book, it seems.  Some are just done when they’re done and when sequels come out… you have to wonder why, when everything was perfect the way it was!  That’s not always true, of course, because some books aren’t structured like that, I guess, and I’m like any other berk wondering when the author will put down the scotch and push another installment out onto the market, but some… you just don’t fiddle with what’s pure and perfect the way it is.”

__________

As they took turns peeking through the keyhole of Mycroft’s study, Mrs. Hudson and Molly were at a loss as to explain the clearly… social… phone call their Mr. Holmes had made and, further the impressive range of facial expressions he’d been making which, in no manner, made their way into the tone of his voice.

      “What’s he doing now, Mrs. Hudson?”

      “Having heart palpitations, I think.”

      “Is that good?”

      “I… probably not, but I’m not going to step in and see if he’s surviving.  He’s having too much fun!”

      “Being dead’s not fun, though, I suspect.”

      “I’m not sure if his ghost would be much different than he is now, so let’s just keep a good thought and assume he’ll want tea at his normal time and not just because his ghostly self wants to stare at a cup of what he can’t enjoy anymore because he was stupid enough to die on the phone.”

      “Give me a look, then.  Might be the last time I see him alive and they always ask about that when someone dies.  What were they doing and how did they look.  I want to be sure I have something to tell the police, as well as the reporters.  Think if he dies, I should see about having my hair done for the occasion?”

      “Hmmm… you don’t want to appear too stylish or they’ll wonder why, given you’re a maid in the house and not his wife.”

      “Could be his mistress.”

Stepping away from the keyhole so their laughter wouldn’t alert their target to their spying, Mrs. Hudson shook her finger at Molly, but thought, privately, that a proper… whatever the word was for when you had a male mistress… would do Mr. Holmes a world of good.  Poor man needed his plumbing flushed in the worst possible way…

      “Anthea would have your head for that.  All the fuss it’d create in the press.”

      “True, and if my head’s lopped off I would’ve wasted my hair-styling money.  Dad would have my head a second time for that, since he’s solidly opposed to waste.”

      “Let’s ignore that plan, then, and focus on what’s going on in there.”

      “What _is_ going on in there?”

      “I don’t know… but I like it.”

      “I do, too.  He actually smiled.  He detests using a phone and he smiled!”

      “Whatever we do, we cannot ever mention this to him.  He’ll burn the house down to hide any evidence he was enjoying himself.”

      “You’re right.  We’ll have to catch him red-handed.”

      “We will.  Just not tonight.  Let him enjoy his little chat.  If he’s happy with this one, there could be more.”

      “Ooh!  That means more fun for us.”

      “Exactly.  Now, it’s long past time for you get to sleep, Molly dear.  Don’t forget tomorrow is the gardeners and they like an early start.”

      “Mr. Holmes given you his complaint list yet?”

      “No, I’ll get it at some point.  I think he’s been distracted.  I’ll have it by morning, though.”

      “Alright, I’m off then.  Make sure to tell me everything that happens tonight.  If it’s interesting, of course.”

      “I will.  We’ll have a meeting, probably should involve Charles, too, and discuss… the ramifications.”

      “Ramifications… oh, it’s an amazing thing.  Mr. Holmes might want a friend… I never thought I’d see that.”

      “Nobody did, dear.  That’s what makes it especially wonderful.”

__________

      “I… that…”

      “Are you alright?”

      “I believe I might be having heart palpitations.”

      “Is that good?”

      “Generally no, but I do not believe this occurrence shall be lethal.”

      “Lucky you!  And you’re doubly lucky because you can have a nice read and nibble on biscuits, while I… actually, there’s no reason I can’t do that, at least for a couple of hours.  Then I’m going to pass out and die for awhile, but a good book is something everyone should hope to have when they’re preparing to enter the Great Beyond.”

      “Verily, it is so.  Though… oh.  It is nearly time for my second cup of tea.”

      “Then you must act.  Can’t leave something like that waiting.”

      “No, the importance of a thoughtfully-scripted tea schedule cannot be overstated.”

      “And I wouldn’t try.  I’m very glad you phoned, Mycroft.  This has been fun!”

      “It has?”

      “Don’t you think so?”

      “That was not the intent of my call.”

      “Right, the Sock Scenario.  Well, you can address highly critical issues and still enjoy yourself, can’t you?”

      “I… I suppose, yes, that can be the case.”

      “So, the next time you phone with something vital to discuss, at least you’ll know that it won’t be dreary and soul-deadening.”

      “True.  I have far too much of that with my brother, as it is.”

      “Then I’ll look forward to hearing from you again.”

      “Oh… that…”

      “Having another palpitation?”

      “No, the sensation is somewhat different.”

      “Well, I hope it doesn’t interfere with your reading night.  Or your tea, which is patiently waiting for you.”

      “Not yet, for I am six minutes from ringing for it.”

      “Then I’ll bid you goodnight to get on with your ringing and thank you again for phoning.”

      “I… goodnight to you as well, Gregory.  I am… I am glad we had this chance to converse.”

Mycroft hung up his vintage silver and black Art Nouveau rotary phone and smiled softly.  The socks issue had been properly managed and… he had chatted.  He had chatted and in a most genial manner, if he was to act as his own judge.  Gregory was notably entertained by their conversation, which was of stellar quality if, again, his own standards served as the benchmark, and it had proceeded to its natural conclusion with no… strain.  There had been times when he had the distinct feeling the other party on the line was hurrying the discussion to a close, but that had certainly not been the case here.  What a remarkable conversation, by all accounts!

And what a fortuitous thing that was, given… oh, there was no doubt there would be _many_ aspects of this film project that would require his oversight.  Socks was simply the tip of the iceberg!  And that iceberg was wholly as enormous as the one that brought about the _Titanic_ tragedy.  However, had _he_ been in charge, the ship would likely still be afloat though, perhaps, converted into some bizarre tourist attraction or hotel, such as the _Queen Mary_.  Nevertheless, there would never have been made about it an insipid film where the stupid boy could easily have survived had he simply joined the useless girl on the floating debris.  Even those flamboyant Mythbusters proved that was nonsense and they were Americans, for heaven’s sake!  Well, _his_ film would not require the Mythbuster fellows to debunk any of its claims.  Mycroft Holmes was on the case and his reach was both long and powerful of grip.

Of course, it would be Gregory who did the actual gripping, however, his calves were certainly not the only part of him well-described as beefy.  A man with thick, powerful fingers surely could extend his own personal grip very suitably for the task at hand.  No matter the quantity and diversity of tasks that were presented…


	13. Chapter 13

      “Bugger…”

Greg scowled slightly at his mobile and for two distinct reasons.  One, it was Anderson phoning, so there was likely business to discuss and he was ready to leave business behind for a couple of days and, two, it wasn’t Mycroft.  Not that he expected the writer to phone, but he did in an odd way, given Mycroft’s unexpected sock call.  If a man would phone because of a stray thought about socks, the field for other flights of fancy was wide, deep and full of rabbits.  He hadn’t heard from the man once this week and, honestly, he could have used the breath of fresh air.  Winding up the LA leg of his publicity tour had been murder and, though his frequent bits of sparring and lunacy with Anderson brought a welcome amount of relief, there was something about Mycroft’s completely, nor nearly so, lack of connection to the entertainment industry helped put a different spin on the conversation that was extremely refreshing.

      “What do you want, Anderson?”

      “It’s more what do _you_ want, Greg?  Perhaps… a flight to London?”

      “We’re booked?”

      “We fly out tonight, rather than tomorrow and I have you with four full free days, then a fifth with only a single morning interview so you have the rest of the day free.  Day six sees us striding fully back into hell, but at least you can sleep in your bed every night and have wild monkey sex with the bedbugs and dust bunnies.”

      “I’ve missed them sooooo much.”

Greg’s weepy voice made Anderson smile and give himself a quick pat on the back for negotiating two extra free days for his exhausted client.  Greg had a reputation, a well-deserved one, for being extremely professional and unfailingly hard-working.  It had served him very, very well in the industry, but it definitely exacted a steep price, at times.

      “I’m sure they’ve missed you, too, you perverted pervert.  Oh, and something new for you…”

      “New?”

      “Well, new and… consider it delivered as a note, written in blood, stabbed to your back with a long dagger.”

      “Anthea…”

      “Well deduced!  Apparently, whatever shenanigans you perpetrated with Mycroft Holmes has caused her some degree of burden and she has enacted upon your person an act of dastardly, yet hilarious, revenge.”

Expected… but loins had not been properly girded for the crash of reality onto his shoulders.  The loins were now threatened and crawling into his body cavity for protection.

      “Tell me.  Do it fast.  Rip the plaster off my hairy skin.”

      “You, Greg Lestrade, are now the official spokesperson, and mascot, of the British Mystery Writers Literacy Project.”

      “That… ok, that sounds brilliant, actually.”

      “You say that now.”

      “Oh god, how bad is it?”

      “Well, I already have you booked for several speaking engagements for primary school and library programs, adult learning centers, old people’s book groups, some fundraising events, that sort of thing.  Wear your specs, they actually make you look fairly intelligent.”

The woman was a master of misery.  But, the misery was for a good cause and he had to admit that if his stupid face would draw attention, and funds, to the project it wasn’t the worst use of his time.

      “Wonderful.  Let me guess, Mycroft’s a member of this British Mystery thingummy.”

      “He IS the British Mystery thingummy.  For all intents and purposes, that is.  Apparently, Anthea strongarms other authors into contributing to the yearly grants and awards fund, but he shoulders a lot of it himself.  They handle the actual appearances, though, so that helps.  Now, however, you’re in the stable as an appearance pony, so there’s happiness all around, from what I’ve been told.”

      “Oh, how delightful that sounds.  And I suspect my fee for this is… a number hovering about the vicinity of naught.”

      “Very much in the vicinity, yes.  However, there is usually punch and biscuits available and I can negotiate you a percentage of the snacks table, if you like.  Not too much, though, because we don’t need you fattened like a contented pensioner when you can still muster a sex scene or two on film.”

      “More than one or two, thank you very much.  I’ve still got more fire in the furnace than snow on the roof.”

      “Not much more.  The coal boy hasn’t visited in awhile, and I think you’re starting to sputter out.”

It was funny how many people assumed a star like him would be bedding a new person every night.  As much as he worked, the only thing he bedded every night was his bed.  And it wasn’t even his own most of the time.  He was a bed philanderer and nothing would ever wash that stain from his soul.

      “That’s true, unfortunately.  Maybe London will put a few familiar faces, and bodies, back in my sphere for a quick and dirty coal delivery.”

      “Clean coal’s the rage, now, haven’t you heard.”

      “Fake news.”

      “True, but for the purposes of my sad jest, it works.  We’ll visit one of our familiar coal faces and see what’s available for a touch of fun, what say.”

      “I say that sounds amazing.  Just being home, having a pint in my local, whether I pull anyone or not, sounds… I’m ready to slip back into my as-normal-as-it-can-be life for awhile.  Far more than ready, actually.”

      “Then that’ll be the plan.  I haven’t paid great attention to what’s got the theatre world buzzing, but I’ll gather the possibilities and get tickets if you see something that interests you.”

      “Perfect!  Really, that would be perfect.  I’ve missed that, I’ve missed it a lot.  Just being able to visit the theatre and experience a live performance, even if it’s some tiny fringe thing staged upstairs of some bloody pub.  LA has that but… it’s not the same.”

      “We’ll look over some possibilities on the flight.  So, move your pale and plump arse towards your luggage and start packing, unless you want me to send someone along to do that for you.”

      “No!  I’m not a baby.”

      “Ok, just checking so you don’t whinge about having do all of that hard work yourself.  I’ll text the flight details and have a car ready when it’s time to leave for the airport.”

      “Can we stop for juicy burgers on the way?”

      “We can have a burger stop.”

      “With spicy curly fries?”

      “All you want.”

      “Yes!”

      “Of course, I’m going to change your seat to the cargo compartment, because I am not sitting next to you when your toxic gas begins.”

      “Spicy curly fries don’t give me gas.  But, if we want to stop for one of those enormous bean and cheese burritos from…”

      “NO!  No… you know the rule.  You can only have those when there are no innocent victims within a ten-block radius of your present location.”

      “Don’t smack talk my curly fries, then.”

      “You are a ridiculous man, Greg Lestrade.”

      “That’s why you love me.”

      “And you’re easy to pickpocket when you’re pissed.”

      “Yeah, that does add a lot to my appeal.”

__________

When you flew first class, there was, at the very least, comfortable seats to sleep in when you had to fly for one trillion hours, and alcohol aplenty to make that sleep a bit sounder than it otherwise might be.  It also helped when you had an agent who scarcely slept at all, ever, and made certain that you were awake and shoved in the loo for a quick make-yourself-presentable session before stepping out into public where the inevitable fans and photographers were waiting.  Greg wasn’t sure how they always knew, but they _always_ knew, and inevitably made getting into the waiting car a long and drawn out process.

But, once inside, he could close his eyes once more, though this time it was more to settle into the feel of being home.  Not for a day as a stopover before carrying on to some location shoot, but for a nice long while so his whole being could recharge.  In truth, he loved to travel, loved seeing the world, new people and new things, but he was also something of a homebody who felt most grounded when he was back in England with its own sights and people.

      “Because I am an incredible talent representative, not that your talent is particularly incredible, I had your house stocked with groceries and given a good cleaning, so everything should be ready for you to simply make yourself at home.  Your non-fan mail should be there, too, but I’ll leave the rest for another day after I’ve gone through it and culled the letters asking for semen samples or gifts _of_ semen samples, which is not something anyone should ever have to see, let alone me, but I bear my burden with dignity.”

      “That only happened once.”

      “You say that like _once_ is actually an acceptable number for receiving semen samples in the mail.”

      “Point taken.”

      “So, you should be set for a day of pure nothing unless you want to venture out later but, regardless, I’ll phone tomorrow with news about those theatre tickets and any other gossip I’ve picked up.  I won’t phone early, though, I promise.”

      “Bless you, kind sir.  I really can use the rest.”

      “I know, Greg.  I tried to spread things out for this leg of the publicity tour so that it’s a few more total days, but less to do per day, so you should get some time to yourself most days.  I did get another script cross my path, do you want me to send it along or wait a bit on it?”

      “Wait.  I’ll look at it in a few days, but… just not right now.”

Anderson nodded and looked ahead to the future to when he could schedule his client a real holiday.  A couple of weeks with nothing whatsoever to do but whatever Greg _wanted_ to do.  The man saw pitifully few of those and was overdue for a more extended period of time to remind himself that he had a life besides the one that appeared on the screen.  He might be able to fit something in with a little creativity.  Fortunately, he had that and a little more to spare when it came to safeguarding his friend.

      “Sounds fine.  Oh, and I’m meeting with Anthea tonight about your new appointment or coronation or whatever you’d like to call it to feel important, so I’ll have more details for you about the spokesperson bit, too.  I actually don’t suspect it’ll be too dreadful and, frankly, it’s good to get you associated with more charity work.  Visibly, at least.  People don’t know a quarter of what you do, and I think they should.”

      “Charity isn’t really charity if you’re doing it for good publicity.”

      “You’re not doing it for good publicity, you’re doing it to help people.  The good publicity is just a side benefit.”

      “Pfft.  Now, shut it while I nap.  The traffic looks nasty, so it’ll be a decade until I see my house.  I’d rather spend it sleeping than listening to you.”

      “Fair enough.  Of course, I’ll take some photos of you drooling and sell them to the fan mags for a few extra quid.  These days off are costing me money, you know.”

      “Fine with me.  Want one where I’m belching up the last remnants of my curly fries?”

      “You disgust me.”

      “I’ll take that as a no.”

__________

Home… bed… fridge… telly… everything as it should be.  It was like stepping into comfortable shoes and looking about to find that everything was right in the world.  Now, if he could only stay awake until a reasonable hour, he could try to put himself back on London time and tomorrow could be a successful day.  And, by successful, he meant lazy and pointless.  At best, poke his nose out to grab the newspaper and have a few drinks with Anderson in the evening, but beyond that… arse on sofa, remote in hand, telly keeping him company… pure heaven.

In fact, that could be today, too!  Order pizza, watch a few films, marathon a few programs he’d missed a tragic amount of recently… if his fans knew what he actually did with his free time, they’d be supremely disappointed.  Anderson liked to float stories about parties and galas and the like and that was fine because it was what people expected and it played to the superstar image.  There wasn’t a lot of superstar fodder in a day of pizza, lager and Doctor Who, but there was nothing wrong with a few secrets in his life.  Sometimes it was the only thing that kept him sane…

__________

Hmmm?  What?  No… not his mobile.  Why didn’t he lock the fucking thing in the loo like he told himself to do…

      “Hoozthsandhoozded?”

      “I do apologize, but that is not a language for which I claim fluency.”

      “Fuck.  Starting over… Who is this and who is dead?”

      “Gregory, do you have an acquaintance that is ill?  I… I am terribly sorry for your distress.”

      “Wait… Mycroft?”

      “Yes.”

      “It’s… it’s 3:00 in the morning!”

      “Yes.”

      “Why?”

      “Because that is the system of time we have agreed upon as a society.”

      “Ok, true, bad question.  Why are you _phoning_ me at 3:00 am?”

      “This is time I phoned when last we spoke.”

      “Was it?”

      “Yes.”

      “I was in LA then.”

      “Is that relevant?”

      “Yes, because of the time difference.”

      “Ah.  Is your claim that you are now not in Los Angeles?”

      “That is my claim, yes.  I’m back in London.”

      “Most fortuitous.”

      “Is it?”

      “Yes, since that shall make easier your trip here for Monday.”

      “Trip?  What trip?”

      “The one you will take here on Monday to discuss further the film and your new obligations for my literacy project.”

      “Uhhh… did I miss a memo?”

      “I have not dispatched a memo, no.”

      “Ok… let me put it another way… did we agree that we’d meet on Monday and I simply forgot?”

      “Not that I recall, no, however Anthea noted that you would require some degree of preparation for your new role as the charity’s spokesperson and the film can always benefit from further conversations.  Already I have a list as long as my arm concerning details that must not be ignored in the planning process!”

Anthea.  Little name, big evil.  Mental note:  never try to play the revenge game with Anthea.  The loss is guaranteed, and the penalty for that loss will be devastating.  One simply does not pit the novice against the master…

      “That… that’s probably true.  I just got in, though and only have a couple of days without things I have to do for the studio, so…”

      “Excellent!  Then I am not intruding on your work obligations, which I know you take most seriously.  Anthea shall be here to begin the discussions and appropriate instruction about the charity and I shall make it a point to rise early so that we can maximize the effectiveness of your visit.  Will you wish to stay in the village or shall I instruct Mrs. Hudson to prepare one of the guest rooms for you?”

      “What?”

      “I suspect remaining with us would be far more efficient and, likely, comfortable, but you are free to choose, of course.”

      “Why would I be needing a room?”

      “The train does not depart for London until morning.”

      “I… I could come by car.”

Which implies the coming _will_ occur.  Damn you, Anthea!

      “It seems rather a waste of both time and fossil fuel for you to use personal transportation, though, in truth, it is the option I prefer when I must venture to London.  However, Charles is highly skilled in driving in the most economical manner possible.”

      “I… I…”

      “Perhaps you should cough if there is a morsel of phlegm impairing your speech.”

      “I’m not phlegmy, I’m just…”

      “Excellent news.  I worried for a moment that you might be catching something of the season’s various illnesses.  Pestiferous things, at the best of times, and we have much work ahead of us so I would be most cross with the bacterial legions if they impeded that in the slightest.”

Oh good, Mycroft would thrash the dastardly germs.  That was something, at least.  Not much, but something.  He’d take anything he could get, though, because it may be all the getting he was going to see for this conversation.

      “I don’t suppose we could just discuss things now, could we?  I mean, you’ve already gone to the trouble of phoning…”

      “No, the issues are far too detailed and diagrams may need to become involved, at some point.”

Diagrams.  Who didn’t love a good diagram?

      “Could…”

Could what?  Could this wait?  He’d be hip-deep in publicity again in a few days, then he had to present at a couple of awards ceremonies, there was the biography program that was doing a segment on him that he had to work on… waiting didn’t seem feasible.  Could he say no, he wouldn’t go?  Maybe.  Anthea said to be honest when Mycroft was being unknowingly unreasonable.  That wouldn’t change the fact that Mycroft would be disappointed, though.  And, to be fair, he _was_ trying to make this a good film.  On top of that, he wanted to help his charity.  It wasn’t a command for no purpose but to _be_ a command, but a hope to cooperate on making a couple of important projects the best they could be.  Mycroft simply didn’t view things like time, travel and jet lag the way other people did…

      “… do you think we could start as early as possible?  Your schedule is fine for you, but I have to keep working during standard working-man hours and I’m not young enough anymore to stay awake all night for this reason or that and function well in the morning.”

      “Ah, yes… I somewhat forgot about that.  Yes… yes, I shall make it a point to accommodate your schedule for this visit.  What time of arrival would work best for you?”

Ok… Anthea, evil dragonborn devil woman was right about just being honest.  It may not always be this easy, but Mycroft _was_ willing to compromise if you laid out a problem clearly…

      “I’d say… given it’s about 3:00 now, how about 3:00 on Monday?  In the afternoon, of course.  Is that too early for you?”

      “Hmmmm… I would have to rise at 2:17 pm, however, I have done so, even earlier, when necessary, so I feel I shall be able to manage it.”

      “Good!  Of course, given Anthea will be there, you can also have another few hours and let her handle the early business.”

      “Very true.  Perhaps I shall take an extra hour and arise at 3: 17 pm instead.  I generally require little sleep, but some small measure is necessary for good health.”

      “Very true.  I’ll have my ugly face on the doorstep at three, but you can make your appearance when you feel you’ve had enough sleep to guarantee a healthy day.”

      “That is a very fair bargain.  However, is there a reason you are planning to wear some form of mask?”

      “What?  No. Why would I do that?”

      “You said you would have your ugly face present.  The implication is that you have several and I assumed you were referring to some form of costuming you possessed.”

      “Oh.  No, just a joke.  No masks will be part of our conversation.”

      “Very good, for I do find them rather ridiculous, though taken alone, and not adorning some foolish person’s face, they can be quite the small works of art.  I have a rather ornate few in my collection, actually.”

      “Let me remember… _The Masque of Death’s Disciples_?”

      “Bravo, Gregory!  Yes, they were highly inspiring during the writing of that book.”

      “An actor’s memory is one of his most valuable tools.”

      “A most sensical statement.  Shall I notify Mrs. Hudson to prepare a room for your stay?  It really is no trouble as we have far more in the house than the number of people who occupy it.”

He could say no but… why?  Stay the night in the murder mansion, have some of Mrs. Hudson’s good food, learn more about the character he was going to play and the man who created him.  Who could say no to that?  Well, maybe an exhausted old man who needs a day or two of complete lethargy as desperately as he needed food and water, but… hey, he needed to diet anyway, so cutting back on lethargy would just be another part of his reducing plan.

      “That sounds great and I’ll thank you now for your hospitality.”

      “You are very welcome.  And… I am glad that we shall, again, have a chance to converse about matters of common interest.”

      “I am, too.  Maybe, if we have time, we can watch a film.  One of those old ones that make you wonder why they don’t make them like that anymore.”

      “I…”

      “Yeah?”

      “I would very much enjoy that.”

      “Then we’ll see if we can make that happen.  Is there anything else you need right now or can I say goodnight and snatch a few more hours of sleep?”

      “Hmmm… I cannot think of anything sufficiently pressing that it would require our immediate discussion.”

      “Then I’m cleared for sleep?”

      “Yes, I see no reason to believe otherwise.”

      “Then, I bid you goodnight, Mycroft, and will see you on Monday.”

      “I bid you, also, goodnight, Gregory, and will see you at an early hour on Monday.”

Greg listened to the silence of the terminated call for a moment, then laughed softly before placing his mobile within reach in case Mycroft remembered something and didn’t think twice about phoning again.  He had nothing on his schedule tomorrow, so he could sleep late and erase this little bit of being half-awake.  Besides, having a chat with Mycroft was more fun than his normal get up to piss while half-awake, so his night was already on a winning streak.  That was nice… who didn’t want a winning sleep?  Only a dimwitted bumbler and that certainly wasn’t him.  Usually.  When he had a normal night’s sleep, that is.

Oh well, better get used to the non-normal for awhile.  Nothing about this project was going to be particularly normal, he suspected, and Greg Lestrade’s suspicions were to be taken seriously.  Very seriously, indeed.  Unless he was drunk.  Then they should be wholly ignored and, kindly, never spoken of again. By anyone.  And all photos burned, with the ashes buried deep in the secret-safe earth…

__________

Monday.  How… _fun_ …  Oh dear, invoke any form of amusement and the Dark Reaper of Joy appears to enact punishment.

      “Who could you possibly be phoning at this hour, Fatcroft?  Actually, who could you be phoning, at all?  You know no one besides the individuals currently in this house and your rabid agent and, further, you hate phoning anyone on that already-abbreviated list.” 

      “Au contraire, brother dear.  I have some small collection of acquaintances that I occasionally must phone, so your thesis is neatly refuted.”

      “You phoned for the Speaking Clock, didn’t you?  It seems a suitably archaic act on your part.”

      “Another thesis is ground into the dust, I’m afraid.  For your information, I phoned Gregory to… issue an invitation to visit on Monday.”

      “Incorrect.”

      “Very correct.”

      “You… do not invite.”

      “Yet, that is what transpired.”

Though do ignore the rather giddy pride I am taking from the fact, for it is unquestionably an unseemly, though highly merited, thing.

      “Given you have absolutely no sense of humor, I assume this is not a jest, however… have you succumbed to some form of middle-aged endocrine shift and purchased a male prostitute?”

      “Certainly not.  What an appalling suggestion.”

      “Then who is this Graham person.”

      “His name, as you are well are, is Gregory, and he is the person who is going to portray Diogenes Bell in the upcoming film of my novel.”

      “I have heard nothing of this.”

      “You have heard a wealth of details about it; your refusal to _acknowledge_ said wealth of details does not negate that fact.”

      “Pfft.  In any case, I have little doubt anyone inveigled into participating in this project is on the lowest rung of the ladder for what passes for acting talent in the film industry.”

      “I suspect you… well, to be fair, you certainly would not enjoy Gregory’s films and, frankly, they are not precisely to my taste either, but he shall do a highly commendable job with the role, nonetheless.  We are working as a team, preparing him for the part and ensuring all elements of the film meet my standards.”

      “Now, I know you are lying.  You would immediately dissolve into a putrid mass of fat and gristle if you even thought about interacting with another person in anything approaching… teamwork.”

      “Well… won’t you be surprised when Gregory presents himself at 3:00 pm on Monday.”

      “That assumes I shall be here to witness your downfall.”

      “Now that the gauntlet has been thrown down, Sherlock, are you saying you shall leave it where it lies, to mock you ceaselessly in an ever-louder voice?  Your personal Tell-Tale Heart?”

Oh, how you quiver in agony, brother dear, as you try to draw your leg from my sharp-toothed trap, yet you shall not prevail…

      “For your information, not that it is any of your business, but John said just tonight that he hoped for several more days here so that he could further explore the wilds and relax in the peace and quiet.  We are here until Tuesday, at the very least.”

      “Then our plans coincide most tidily.  Do run along and inform John of his desire to enjoy my hospitality for a few extra days and I shall return to my work.”

Sherlock pout was precisely as adorable as it had been when he was a toddler, but this new coat he had found truly added a sense of drama to his storming out of a room.  Why he was wearing the coat indoors at this time of day, only Sherlock knew, but to each his own.  What _he_ had to do now was ring for Mrs. Hudson before Sherlock could pry any further details out of her and request that she remain mum on the subject of Gregory, as well as instruct the rest of the staff to do the same.  Sherlock would know they were holding information from him, of course, but he would have no idea of the exact reason.  His brother’s level of agitation and curiosity would be staggering and that would certainly keep him busy and out of a certain long-suffering writer’s hair.

And, on Monday, he would have the immeasurable joy of giving Sherlock a hearty, though proverbial, slap with the aforementioned gauntlet.  Already his phone call to Gregory was paying dividends!  Perhaps he should consider doing that more often…


	14. Chapter 14

Well, that was a better train trip than his first to the land of the lost.  He was actually awake, not as jet-lagged and had brought his own coffee to keep his energy up so that he could do a better job of not appearing a berk when he knocked on Mycroft’s door.  There was only so much you could ask of your guardian angel and he’d used up a large portion of his lifetime quota avoiding being shot in the face by Molly’s impressive shotgun.  Given he planned on living a good deal longer, banking some good karma was always a prudent strategy.

And, now… time for a wait.  That was the one thing about train travel – you had a limited choice of arrival times and the other option for landing in Brigadoon would have put him too close to the 3:00 pm mark to make it feasible, since it was fairly certain tardiness would take a sizable red pen to his banked karma ledger to start striking things off the list.

Therefore, time to a kill a nice hour of time before the hundred-year putter in whatever car-for-hire was available and that hour would be very agreeably murdered in his familiar pub, where he could have a bite of lunch, a few hearty pints and gather his own thoughts about today’s business - Mycroft’s arm-long list of ‘details’ and this new role for the charity.  Anderson had refined the parameters of the latter with Anthea and, ultimately, it didn’t sound like it would take much of his time.  A few additional interviews and adverts for the print and non-print media.  The occasional speech or Q&A at this or that event… nothing that he hadn’t done before and for far-lesser causes.

Definitely looking forward to that first pint, though…

      “It’s Mr. Errol Flynn!  Couldn’t stay away from our tidy little village, Captain Blood?  Or was your eye turned by one of our lovely ladies, like Doris there?”

Who was 75 years old and well-remembered by Greg’s bottom for her knitting-strengthened fingers.  Which looked very ready for another little feel of his manly bum and whatever else he was sporting for manly goods under his neutral-toned, not-too-fussy set of clothes.

      “It was actually your fine lager, good sir, no offense to the buxom and beautiful Ms. Doris.  I’ve been missing it terribly.  How about a pint of that and whatever the kitchen has going that’s especially filling for a man desperately in need of a late lunch?”

      “That can certainly be arranged. Have a seat and Ginnie will take of you.”

Ah, the fair Ginnie, who had made his first visit here so very memorable.  And had made him sign – To Virginia with deepest and sexiest love, Greg Lestrade - on the cover of the film mag she’d brought to The Great Signing Session on the day he departed.  He had to admire someone with a bold spirit and, further, someone who didn’t take shit from anyone, even someone promising deep, sexy love in nearly-illegible handwriting.

      “Hello, Ginnie, you lovely thing.”

      “That’s sexist.”

      “Hello, Ginnie, you hard-working asset to this fine establishment.”

      “Better.  One pint of lager for you and… this.”

Greg stared at the envelope set on the table near his pint and opened his mouth to ask about it before realizing he was alone again.  Alright… putting detective skills to work.  The paper wasn’t that bluish-white you saw for the type of envelope you bought in a package of fifty.  And it wasn’t that strange buttery-cream that some people bought to try and look like they weren’t the sort _to_ buy the package of fifty envelopes.  It was more… linen colored.  And… oh, this was heavy.  Consequentially heavy, in point of fact.  Not thick, so much, but as if the paper was particularly dense.  This was the sort of thing you bought at expensive shops or ordered specially made just for you.  No scent except for the smell of good paper, which was nice, because good paper smelled nice on its own and there was little worse than handling a perfumed envelope that left your fingers smelling of flowers or whatnot for the rest of the day.

No writing on the front or seal or such on the back, but it had been closed by tucking in the flap and not by licking the gummed portion.  Which… didn’t actually exist.  No licky section at all.  Ok… could be the sort of envelope that was never meant to go into the actual post or the person who commissioned its creation specified they didn’t _want_ a licky section to be added.  Because, possibly, licking an envelope flat was a horrifying concept and the staff that had been asked to do it told this person to bugger off.  Hello, Mycroft…

Pulling the paper from the envelope, which was exactly as exquisite as the envelope itself, Greg smiled at the handwriting, which was more exquisite still and worlds beyond what his own chicken-scratching-for-grain scribbling could ever muster, to his mum’s eternal shame.

_ My dear Gregory, _

_ I anticipate you will arrive on the 1:25 pm train and that you will seek out a soothing location to restore yourself after your ordeal.  I have instructed the owner of the pub to extend to you all possible courtesy and to dispatch his son, young Timothy, to obtain a portion of Mrs. Harris’s delightful Victoria sandwich cake to tempt your palette after what I expect will be a rather substantial meal.  Mrs. Hudson believes her Victoria sandwich to be superior, however, I have pointed out many times that Mrs. Harris spreads the jam with a spoon, as opposed to a knife or spatula-like device, and the difference is both discernable and superior. _

_ I look forward to your arrival later today and expect we shall have a most scintillating discussion about our mutual projects. _

_ Regards, _

_ Mycroft Holmes _

This letter was right up there on the adorable scale with those he received from his younger fans and the older ones who were almost scandalized they were doing something as ridiculous as mailing a letter to an actor.  Jam… there was actually no chance that Mycroft hadn’t had two of those cakes in front of him at some point, detailing to Mrs. Hudson the essential elements of his jam position, and, also, that he _could_ detect how jam had been spread on a Victoria sandwich.

And, of course, it would never occur to Mycroft to simply say to come straight to the house, since it would violate their 3:00 pm agreement, but… that was ok.  An excellent meal, what was surely a delicious morsel of cake, a pint or two and a pub where people weren’t paying him any more attention than they would anybody else who wandered in off the street.  Heaven.  He was in heaven.  His own local in London was a small slice of heaven, usually, but there was always a new face now and again that tweeted about seeing him there and he’d have to give up his traditional pint-with-a-match for awhile until things calmed down.  The pub didn’t mind, because they certainly got a revenue boost, but… oh well, more prices he had to pay and, in the grand scheme, it was a small one.  What dear Ginnie was bringing towards his table, though, could not be described by the term small no matter how ironic you were trying to be.

      “Hope you’re hungry.”

That was the most enormous pie he’d ever seen.  A family of four could live in this pie and have room for their dog and budgie.  But, dear god, it smelled amazing…

      “I’m not scared.  I’ve got a hollow leg.”

      “Save room in your toe for your special treat, then.  Mr. Holmes would be very upset if you didn’t eat every bite.”

      “You’d tell him, too, wouldn’t you, Traitor Ginnie?”

      “In a microsecond.”

Greg used the scowl he practiced for the too-many movies that required him to use a ferocious, but sexy, scowl and credited his adversary with an Anthea-worthy waving off of his nonsense as she took his empty pint to trade for a much-welcome sequel.  All in all, he was terribly happy these people were watching Mycroft’s back.  He had no idea how much bother authors endured when they simply tried to live their lives, but Mycroft would detest even the _slightest_ bother and what the village, and Mycroft’s staff, did to keep that to the barest minimum was to be applauded.  That he got a few crumbs of that benefit was nothing to ignore, either.  This pie _was_ amazing…

_____________

      “Ah, Mr. Lestrade.”

Greg looked up at the familiar voice and hoped there wasn’t cream and jam on his face as he smiled at the newly-arrived chauffer.

      “Running a few errands, Charles?”

      “One could say that, sir.  I was dispatched to collect a certain item for which Mr. Holmes has been waiting with some anxiousness.”

      “Oh, what do they call them… galley proofs for a new book?”

      “No, something a touch heavier and… fleshier than your guess.”

Maybe eating all the pie was a mistake.  Or every last delicious crumb of the cake.  And that third pint.  Heavier and fleshier isn’t what Greg Lestrade wanted carved on his tombstone…

      “Message received.  And thank you for it!  Nice not to have to hire a car.”

      “Mr. Holmes thought it improper since _he_ had extended the invitation.  And I am well aware of what is available to hire and the subsequent assault on the posterior of the poor devils damned to the driver’s seat.”

Charles was a god among men.

      “Yeah, I was going to see if there was a cushion to purchase.  The road is nigh on diabolical.”

      “The sheep and badgers seem to appreciate it.”

      “I’m happy for them.  So… time to go?”

      “Yes, sir.  It would not do to be late.”

      “No, no it would not.”

Tossing money on the table and adding a little extra for the aspiring-Anthea who’d tended to him with exceptional professionalism and zero nonsense-tolerance, Greg rose, wiped any trace of cake off of his face and smiled at Charles to get the walk to the car started.  And what a nice car it was.  Large, dark and heavy, which was perfect for comfort across the string of divots and bumps that served as the road to Mycroft’s house.  But, he did have to ask…

      “Tell me this isn’t the only car Mycroft owns.”

      “Oh no… this is the more sedate of our small stable of vehicles.  Mr. Holmes’s tastes are not confined to furnishings and draperies.  Much to my personal delight.”

      “Yes!  I knew there had to be something amazing waiting for those times he’s feeling a little dramatic.”

Or extremely dramatic, which Greg suspected and Charles knew for certain.  But, there was absolutely nothing wrong with that.  A little drama was good for the soul… and a lot of drama could be a great deal of fun…

__________

      “Uh… Charles?”

      ‘Yes, sir?”

      “Where are we going?”

      “To deposit you at Mr. Holmes’s doorstep.”

      “But… why’d you turn when the way to his house was straight on the road we were traveling?”

      “To intersect with a wormhole?”

      “No.”

      “Tesseract?”

      “False.”

      “Ummmm…”

      “Fuck me!  There’s a real road out there, isn’t there?”

      “Must I confess?”

      “Yes, you miserable bastard.”

      “There is a real road, though it, technically, is private and one must have the landowner’s permission to traverse it.”

      “Might this landowner’s initials be MH?”

      “I am somewhat poor with my knowledge of letters, sir.”

      “You and every person in that village is a villain.  A fucking legion of villains and I hope you all get hemorrhoids.”

      “What brutal man you are, sir.  Consider the poor infants!  First, nappy rash and now engorged anal vessels.  Their poor tender bottoms…”

      “I hate you.”

      “Hate lies on other side of the coin which also harbors love, so I am content.”

      “Go write a poem.”

      “Very well… there once was an actor with hemorrhoids, who loathed babies and small shiny androids…”

      “The hate, it burns!”

      “Nappy rash cream should help with that, sir.  I’ll see if we have a tube knocking about.”

__________

Charles’s placid smile as he opened the door to allow Greg to exit the car earned him a gesture Greg generally reserved for Anderson at his most bastardy and it wasn’t surprising, in Greg’s opinion that he received the same rolled-eye response that his agent gave when he was the victim of the Fingers of Vulgarity.  His life was marked by the paying of prices and, now, he was paying the price for his wish to be treated like a normal bloke finally coming true.  Yeah, it was something he could manage on his wage…

However… leaping back into the not-normal bloke territory… why was there a receiving line waiting for him once Molly answered the door?

      “Gregory!  I am glad to have you, again, in my home.”

      “Mycroft… thank you. And awake to greet me, which I appreciate.  I really didn’t need a reception, though.  And… is something wrong with that chap in the middle?”

Because he was beginning to hyperventilate and looked like he was moments from passing out.

      “John?  Oh, dear me.  He does look dreadful.  Sherlock, tend to your… person.”

Something Sherlock was just noticing and feeling no small amount of aggravation that he hadn’t been the first to notice.  How could he, though?  Mycroft had a visitor!  His boring, tedious brother knew a person who would accept an invitation to this mausoleum to willingly wallow in the tedium!  The obviously-addled man wasn’t even over the age of eighty, either, which he had considered might be a possibility, because only an octogenarian would find his brother an acceptable conversation partner.  A deaf octogenarian, at that.  However, there were other matters, currently, vying for his attention…

      “John!  You are disgracing yourself.  Unless you are suffering an anaphylactic reaction, in which case, blink three times so we know to phone for an ambulance.”

      “Gr… Gre… oh my god… it’s you!  Do you know who you are!”

Greg looked behind him quickly in case someone had walked in unnoticed, then fell back into his standard mindset for managing a highly-excited fan.

      “That I do, and I’m honored that you do, too.”

      “It _is_ you!  It’s Greg Lestrade!  Sherlock, it’s Greg Lestrade!  Mycroft!  Why didn’t you say you knew Greg Lestrade!  Greg Lestrade!  It’s him!”

Mycroft and Sherlock studied John like he was some form of bird that hops and peeps incessantly for no apparent reason, but, to Greg, this was nothing short of extremely familiar.

      “Absolutely.  I’m glad you know my work.”

      “I’ve seen ALL your films!”

      “I’ve got a new one opening soon; I hope I’ll have your support for that one, too.”

      “I’ve read all the articles in the film magazines and caught your interviews on the telly and…”

Sherlock dragged John to the cloak closet off the entrance, opened it, shoved John inside and quickly closed it, locking it with a key that was helpfully placed atop the doorframe.

      “Sherlock!  My outerwear is in there!  John could… don it!”

Greg suddenly felt the pieces fall into place.  Sherlock was Mycroft’s baby brother… baby being the operative word.  The extra-satisfied grin on the young berk’s face said he knew that John character wouldn’t be the only one in a tizzy over his ridiculousness.

      “You can burn it and buy new, Fatcroft!  You!  Who are you and what have you done to John!”

Again, Greg looked behind him for a new arrival, this time completely ignoring Mrs. Hudson and Molly’s giggles, and took a steadying breath before replying.  Though not to the dark-haired lunatic pointing at him as if ‘J’accuse!’ was on the very tip of his tongue.

      “ _Mycroft_ , if you’d care to tell me what’s going on, I’d really appreciate it.”

Greg had to ask the question another two times to pull Mycroft’s attention from the cloak closet crisis and wasn’t surprised the attention he gained wasn’t near Mycroft’s full reservoir.

      “Yes, I do apologize.  This is Sherlock, my brother, who, as you can see is… Sherlock do go and release John.  He… he must be terribly unnerved by this.”

      “No.”

Sherlock’s ‘no’ won him a swat on the back of his head from Mrs. Hudson who used his reach upward to soothe the impact site to pick his pocket for the key.

      “You’re an evil boy, Sherlock Holmes, and see now if you have even a bite of lemon tarte later for lunch.  Not that you’ll have any teeth in your mouth to chew the crust, since Doctor Watson is going to give you the treatment you deserve for being rotten.”

      “John cannot reach as high as my mouth.”

      “Evil!  And that door’s not so thick he probably didn’t hear that.”

The ‘oops’ look on Sherlock’s face made Greg laugh and he felt far more confident about the situation than he did a moment ago.  These dynamics were well within his comfort zone…

      “Mycroft?  I wager John is too busy thinking about how to murder your brother to even consider modeling your coats and whatnot.”

      “I… perhaps.”

Greg turned to Mrs. Hudson, shared an understanding smile, and motioned for her to give him the key, which he quickly used to free the imprisoned doctor.

      “Sherlock!  You sodding…”

Quick as a flash, Greg spun John to face his direction and favored him with his most no-nonsense glare.

      “Did you, John, try on any of Mycroft’s clothes?”

      “Wh… what?  No!  No, I didn’t even think… why would I do something like that?”

      “Mycroft?  Good enough for you?”

John had known the older Holmes brother for only a short time, but his work put him in contact with a wide variety of people and had given him a leg up on understanding the man who was starting to nod solemnly as if a matter of grave importance had just been settled.

      “Yes… yes, I have confidence in John’s declaration.”

      “Excellent!  Thank you, John, for properly respecting Mycroft’s coats and being a more mature bugger than that one over there who is the only one in this room who deserved getting a smack from Mrs. Hudson.”

Apparently, to John, his ultimate, all-time favorite film star also understood the older Holmes and was willing to step in when Mycroft was feeling uncomfortable about something.  That was… whatever the hell it was who really knew and he didn’t care right now because Greg Lestrade had touched him!  Ok… time not to look like a loony teenager and remember he was a respectable Army doctor and consulting detective’s assistant.  The warmth of that man’s touch did linger, though… it must be part of his special star appeal…

      “Um…. thank you… Mr. Lestrade.”

      “Please, call me Greg.”

Tossing his newly-remembered respectability to the wind by looking as giddy as a schoolgirl, John grinned widely and then turned it into a scowl after Sherlock’s rude noise intruded on his joy.

      “Oh, you’re going to pay for that, you bastard.”

Giddy schoolgirls could manage a highly practiced rage grin when they felt the urge and the urge, now, was a mighty one.

      “You cannot… oh dear.”

As John bore down on Sherlock, Sherlock did something surprisingly smart and ran, which took a turn for the frantic as John gave chase, with the intent to trounce shining brightly in his eyes.  For his part, Greg nodded and considered that matter properly settled.

      “Well… good to see you, Mycroft.  I see you have the family in for a visit.”

Mycroft blinked a bit in surprise at Greg’s casual tone, but rewarded the actor a bounty of congratulations for correctly ignoring Sherlock’s nonsense and getting on with matters at hand.  What a delightful visit this was and it had only just begun!

      “Yes, they were scheduled to leave earlier, but Sherlock doubted your existence and required proof of your mortal state.”

Little brother wanted to stay and play the monkey when big brother had someone over for a visit.  This family might be a bit different than the norm, but the basic familial truths were there, all the same.

      “Oh, interesting.  Well, I _am_ alive and very happy to be out here again.  Anthea arrived yet?”

      “Yes, she is in my study readying certain materials for you to examine.”

      “Then we’d best get started.  Ladies, it’s good to see you, as well.”

Molly and Mrs. Hudson gave Greg a ‘you watch yourself, actor’ pair of narrowed eyes, which softened after Greg cleared his throat and turned back towards Mycroft.  It wouldn’t do to let Mr. Rich and Famous get too comfortable just yet.  Or ever.  Even Mr. Holmes knew who was in charge of the house and Mr. Lestrade had best learn that fact and learn it well.  Though… didn’t he get along _marvelously_ with their Mr. Holmes… 

      “So, Mycroft… shall we?”

      “Shall we what?”

      “Go and see what Anthea has ready for me.”

      “Excellent suggestion!  Mrs. Hudson, perhaps some tea?”

It wasn’t necessary for Mrs. Hudson to make a show of giving the idea some thought, but if Sherlock could be dramatic today, so could she.

      “Good idea.  I need a large mug of the stuff right now to keep my eyes open.  A lady needs her sleep, you know, and waking at the crack of creation isn’t recommended to help with that.”

      “Then do prepare sufficient for yourself, as well.  And make it, as they say, the strong stuff.”

Waking just shy of 3:00 pm and needing a hearty caffeine fix.  Greg couldn’t say he hadn’t had days like that when he was younger but, to be fair, he also had a hangover tearing at him and the thought of strychnine was on par with caffeine as a method of making life seem a little better.

      “Gregory, shall we?”

      “Shall we what?”

      “I… I thought we were joining Anthea in my study?”

      “Just a tiny joke, on my part.”

      “Yes, it was not a terribly robust one, I must admit.”

Don’t change, Mr. Holmes.  Honestly, the world needs unique people and you certainly fit the bill.

      “And I concur.  Start walking and do not ask me where.”

      “Drat.  My witty rejoinder dies a quick and unremarked death.”

Greg burst out laughing and Mycroft startled when the actor made a deep, elaborate bow.

      “I submit to the master of jests.”

Mycroft’s proud smile earned him another bow, instead of the rude gesture or punch on the arm Greg might have given someone else, as they started moving towards the study.  It appeared Mycroft Holmes inherited all the humor in the family; maybe that was why his little brother seemed a sour sort.  Of course, one couldn’t form a real opinion after so short an encounter.  Locking another person in a closet had to be factored in, though.  Frankly, that could count for either the humor or sour side of the scales.  A good detective always collected a thorough amount of clues before forming a conclusion, so he’d keep his eyes open for more evidence.

And, oh yes… forgot the little brother _was_ an actual detective.  This visit was absolutely worth the loss of his do-nothing day.   Definitely a point to you, Mycroft Holmes.  You’re making this journey to the Village of the Damned something Greg Lestrade, actor just-short-of-extraordinaire, might start looking forward to a bit more than expected…


	15. Chapter 15

      “I do want to thank you for coming today, Gregory.  Your trousers are most placid.”

To Greg’s mind, there was really no way to ask what the fuck that meant and have it sound polite, so the rolling along paradigm would not be amended.

      “They are at that.  And I should thank _you_ for inviting me.  And for wanting me as the spokesperson for your charity.  That’s a tremendous honor and I’m grateful you see me as a worthy representative for your good work.”

Oh, that made you happy, didn’t it, Mr. Holmes?  Greg Lestrade is a professional recognizer of the shy, pleased smile and couldn’t have missed yours if my eyes were closed.

      “That is… I am glad to know you are content with the offer.  I do take seriously the cause of literacy and, though more intellectual individuals will surely be unaware of your status in popular entertainment, those most in need of the charity’s services shall surely recognize you and that has been proven to make a positive impact on the message of a cause.”

That was the nicest insult Greg had ever received.

      “That’s going to be my goal.  Getting the message out and making it as positive as a message can be.  Especially for those little tykes.  I was never much for school, but I loved to read, and I honestly believe it’s what helped me get as far as I did in life and, frankly, enabled me to appreciate that life a lot more than I might have otherwise.”

Mycroft nodded knowingly and was struck again by how greatly he had underestimated this man.

      “What reading can do for a young mind and soul…  Books were a haven for me, in some ways, in my youth.  No matter what else might be occurring, there was always a grand adventure and world filled with bold promise awaiting in a favorite book.  Or, a delicious puzzle to contemplate.  Perhaps a ghostly bit of fun to send the thrill of terror down my spine.”

Mycroft looked so gleeful at the thought of reading that Greg revised his mental image to include a large pile of well-thumbed horror and science fiction novels next to the Mills & Boons under Mycroft’s bed.   Which, he was now starting to believe was one of those enormous four-poster monsters with curtains on all sides so Mycroft could block out the rest of the world and live in his own self-made one while enjoying his grand adventure or spooky tale of terror.

      “It’s definitely easy to lose yourself in a good book.  More people need to have that experience, really get to enjoy the way books stimulate mind in ways films and the telly simply can’t.  This is going to be a good thing, Mycroft, I absolutely believe that.  I was a bit startled, at first, since there’s normally a good bit of negotiation and preliminary talks beforehand, but the more I thought about it, the more I loved the idea.  And I’m sure you’ll be right on top of checking that things are done right and I present the proper image.”

      “Yes, not a detail shall be left unaddressed.  I take such undertakings most seriously.”

That you do, Mr. Holmes.  Well, before we enter what I suspect is your study, let’s have a test, shall we?

      “Ok, then… give me a serious addressing of these.”

Mycroft’s puzzled look evaporated when Greg lifted his trouser leg to put his socks on display, something that drew Mycroft downwards to examine more carefully.

      “Hmmmm… you present me with an intriguing option.”

A rich, chocolate brown with a small, cream paisley pattern that had Mycroft’s brain at war with itself over whether it was subtly garish or tastefully chaotic, which, in essence, had been Greg’s fiendish plan all along.

      “I thought I’d throw out a test trial to start working out the parameters of sock acceptability.”

      “And a devilish trial is it.  Bravo, Gregory.  I am generally most quick to judge such things, but I am feeling genuinely confounded at the moment.”

      “The best way to test parameters!  Don’t bother with easy questions, go right for the hard ones that challenge you and do it mercilessly.  Push you right to the edge of the precipice.”

Not that paisley was, for most people, a precipice-pusher, but Greg had been certain Mycroft would find it a daunting proposition.

      “Very, very challenging indeed…”

      “Oh my god, what are you two doing out here?”

Oops.  The War God Anthea had arrived and looked ready to get Armageddon started.

      “This is serious socks business, ma’am.  Step back, please, we don’t want innocent bystanders, or you, swept up by the melee.”

Mycroft’s tiny snort of laughter only bought Greg an over-Mycroft-head rude gesture from Anthea, as opposed to a heartier response to his silliness.  Which would _still_ have been a rude gesture, but one of those she saved for special occasions like cheeky actors or their agents.  It was rare for her client to enjoy time spent with another person, let alone enjoy it enough to actually laugh… and nothing would be said that Mycroft was busily inspecting the man’s socks… so the sword of her wrath, for now, would remain sheathed.

      “I’ll melee you both good and hard if you keep wasting my time with your hosiery fetishes.  We have work to do and… Mr. Holmes, can you stop fondling Mr. Lestrade’s ankle long enough to listen to me?”

      “I am merely taking a measurement, imprecise, I concede, of Gregory’s medial malleolus to evaluate its proportion with respect to the pattern.  I suspect that is a highly vital metric for my analysis.”

      “This is your fault, actor boy, and every minute of my time where I’m not enjoying one of Charles’s excellent vodka martinis is one minute you’re going to be appearing as the guest judge for the village’s annual pet parade.”

      “That won’t work on me!  I love animals.”

      “Part of the parade involves costumes.”

      “Pets are amazing in fancy dress.”

      “I didn’t say anything about the pets.   Judges get especially striking ones.  What little of them there is to be striking, that is.  But, you don’t mind being half-naked on screen, so I suspect a leather thong and cape won’t be too much of an embarrassment, even with a cat in your arms and a parrot on your shoulder.”

      “You are _so_ lying.”

      “How certain of that are you?”

Not enough.

      “Mycroft, how about we give Anthea our attention for a bit, what say?  If you like, I’ll put my leg up so you can get a measuring tape or something for more precise measurements once we’re done with business.”

      “Ah, a worthy suggestion. I am never an advocate for inexactness in the decision-making process.”

      “Never a good thing, I agree.”

Mycroft took a few more moments to visually inspect Greg’s sock before rising and following Anthea into his study, where a variety of papers were strewn across his desk, necessitating an immediate reorganization by the desk owner while Greg took a seat and got a look around the room.  Which was as much a library as it was a study and occupied not only space on the ground floor but rose up through the next floor, as well, with a walkway circling the space that expanded into what appeared to be a small reading space adjacent to the upper bank of windows.  Walls on both levels were lined with built-in bookcases except for one on the ground level which housed an enormous, gothic-horror fireplace.  He was now officially in love with this room.  There was lust involved, too.  More of it than he’d like to admit.

      “There… much better.  Oh, and Molly has refilled my boiled sweets!  How felicitous.  Gregory, might I offer you an aniseed ball or, perhaps, a humbug?”

He was in the car with his Gran!  Yes, the particular scent of her favorite handbag, with its seemingly unlimited, and charmingly arcane, assortment of sweets and sewing notions, was gently perfuming the air.

      “Absolutely, but could I have it after our tea?  I’d hate to not have a fresh palette to enjoy a cup of Mrs. Hudson’s finest.”

      “A stellar suggestion.  The aniseed balls might pose a particular problem as I, for one, do enjoy a long, leisurely suck of a flavorful ball.”

Greg’s quickly-cut eyes towards Anthea confirmed that not only did her client have no clue what he just said, the process of explaining it would cripple them both.

      “Then I’ll look forward to indulging later.  So, let’s take a look at all of this!  Anthea, want to start walking me though things?”

Which Anthea happily did, with Mycroft’s frequent interjections providing a healthy mix of clarity and confusion that only ground to a gradual halt when the last items of business had been completed.

      “The both of you have filled my tiny brain to capacity.  I’m glad we had the chance to go over all of this, too, because it’ll help when Anderson and I talk about my appearance and publicity schedule.  Looks great, though!  And, I think it’s going to be a _lot_ of fun.  Talking about reading and books with loads of different people, especially the little ones… yeah, I’m both thrilled and honored to be part of this.”

Anthea wondered when she’d last seen her client look so comfortable in a meeting with someone present besides her and credited the actor with having the right instincts for reaching Mycroft on a personal level.  If you didn’t have them from the onset, you _could_ gain them, but that required time and most people who lacked the proper insights didn’t particularly want to invest the time to build their portfolio.

      “Excellent!  I am, also, most enthused for what I envision as a rejuvenation of this project.  It is a successful endeavor, to be certain, but I am confident your contribution will promote an admirable level of growth.”

Deciding that a business acquaintance was one thing, but an actual acquaintance or, better yet, friend would do her client a world… no, a galaxy… of good, Anthea cleared her throat and tried not to smile in something other than a clearly scheming fashion. 

      “Alright, I’m done here, for now.  Since there’s still some daylight holding firm, why don’t you, Mycroft, take Greg for a stroll outdoors so he can see the grounds and some of your favorite bits.  It’s not often someone gets a tour of them when they can actually see what you’re pointing out and not have to take your word for it.”

      “Oh, what a delightful suggestion.  Gregory, would you care for a tour of the property?  There are features I suspect will pique your interest.”

      “I’d love it!  Bring along a few balls to suck, while we’re at it?”

Anthea’s lips puckered tightly to prevent any response, especially after seeing Mycroft’s excited smile.

      “The very thing!  Anthea, if you will inform Mrs. Hudson that I have taken Gregory for a small tour and any efforts to prevent Sherlock’s rampaging will be most appreciated.”

      “I’ll tell her, but I suspect Doctor Watson probably broke both of his legs, so rampaging might be off his list of activities for a few weeks.”

      We can but hope.  Gregory, shall we?”

Anthea made her exit to find Mrs. Hudson, while Greg politely waited for Mycroft’s careful counting out of sweets and lining them up in a perfect queue, before carefully folding the still-perfect queue in a piece of paper to take with them on their walk.

      “Want to use the window again or the door this time?”

      “I _was_ rather roguish the first time we met, was I not?”

The fact that Mycroft meant every word of that was like a small puppy cozily napping in the bed of Greg’s heart.  It was just so _cute_ …

      “I was mightily impressed.  So, window?”

      “The sill has not been dusted today.”

      “A critical factor?”

      “Quite.”

      “The door it is!  Do you have a door that’ll take me through a part of the house I haven’t seen yet?”

      “Yes.”

      “How about we use that one as our bit of roguish thrill?  Something new and exciting, at least for me?”

Look at your eyes shine, Mycroft Holmes.  The puppy was now awake and chewing on it’s toy.  There’s only so much cute one man could take and Mycroft was sending his cuteometer straight to the red zone.

      “I know the perfect one!  It leads to a small side garden and was, ostensibly, the door by which the former lady of the house greeted her lover before they darted up the back stairs to her bedchamber.”

      “Scandalously roguish!  And a garden, you say?  Any stories that go with it?”

      “Oh, most certainly.”

Hopping up, Greg strode somewhat theatrically to the study door and waited, hands clasped behind his back while Mycroft repositioned several desk items that had been moved, after some discussion, so the various papers could be more easily reviewed.  It also gave Mycroft a moment to tap the glass sculpture on his desk nine times, in groups of three taps, to steady his nerves.  Not that he had reason to be nervous about escorting his guest on a tour, since he had done this before, however… sharing convivial time with another person was a rare thing for him and he had yet to fully settle into today’s experience.

Perhaps it was his brother’s typical disruptive effect, but it could also… for heaven’s sake, he had touched the man’s ankle!  His fingers had been laid upon Gregory’s person, his sock!, and it was not a thing he had ever before done with such a complete lack of forethought.  By modern standards, there was no particular impropriety in the act, and Gregory clearly was not offended, but… he had touched a sock.  That enclosed a foot!  Still attached to a body… it was a heady thing…

      “Mycroft?  Can I help you with something?”

      “What?  Oh, no?”

      “That’s not a convincing no.”

      “Yes, do pardon me.  I became rather lost in the question of socks.”

      “You were mesmerized by how gorgeous mine are, weren’t you?”

Mesmerized was not the worst possible descriptor of his state of mind.

      “I have not fully decided on my approval or disapproval of the pattern; however, I did recall that I have not collected my measurements.”

      “You’re right!  I forgot about that, too; got too caught up in discussing your literacy project.  Want to do that now?”

Good heavens, no!  Have you not listened to my mental dialogue, Mr. Lestrade, and marked the clear signs of mental vexation and… cacophonous musings!

      “Given we shall soon lose the remaining vestiges of sunlight, I believe we should postpone that initiative until afterwards.”

      “Smart and efficient.  On we go, then.”

Yes, fresh air might actually, this once, meet its mythical obligation as a restorative.

      “Most certainly.  The paths are well groomed, so worry not about the status of your shoes.”

Greg’s grin, to Mycroft, was an affirmation that shoe status was a recognized point of importance by the actor.  To Greg it was simply a sign of his enjoyment of the moment.  A garden stroll with good conversation, sweets and closely-guarded footwear.  It was the little things in life that made it worth living…

__________

      “Everything’s poisonous?”

      “Most certainly.  I have worked most assiduously to collect various poisonous plants mentioned in literature or real crime fiction.  At least, those that will thrive in our climate.  I am very pleased with my efforts so far.”

Greg looked out over the large assemblage of plants in the, admittedly, lovely garden, one of many on Mycroft’s property, and felt no real surprise that the other smaller plots they had looked over were only the starting acts for the headline band.

      “This is a truly amazing thing.  I’ve heard of these poison gardens, but never suspected a person would have one on their own property.  And, I never suspected that the plants would be so… pretty.  I would have imagined them as looking like something out of Tim Burton film or a Gorey illustration.”

      “Much like humans, their danger is camouflaged by a pleasant appearance.”

      “That’s the truth of it, too.  To be fair, though, they’re only dangerous to the things that are supposed to leave them alone, right?  I thought I read or saw David Attenborough talk about these poisonous beauties still needing to be pollinated or their seeds strewn about, so the ones that do that are fine with cavorting with their poisons.  It’s just the ones that would trample them or munch them out of existence that feel the proverbial axe blade.”

Mycroft’s happy gasp made Greg feel especially proud of his slightly-remembered bit of natural history knowledge.

      “That is absolutely correct.  It is a somewhat paradoxical pleasure to stroll here in the summer, especially, and view the various insects and birds that are happily enjoying the bounty of their lethal harvest.”

      “Incorrect, Flabcroft, for you refuse to exit your house for anything short of a civilization-razing level of emergency, so I’m wondering what atrocity this film-prancer has committed on your person and where, precisely, is a copy of your last will and testament.”

Greg took note of the ‘bloody wonderful’ look on Mycroft’s face and prepared for another round of baby-brother antics.

      “Sherlock, how kind of you to join Gregory and me for our stroll.  Has Doctor Watson come to his senses and fled to kinder, more agreeable, arms or do you still have inserted in his skull the mind-control device you are using to perpetrate your caddish villainy?”

In a surprise twist, big-brother antics takes the first strike!  This was shaping up nicely…

      “John is currently eating.  It is one of his favorite activities, therefore, I left him to indulge in Mrs. Hudson’s… I have no idea what since I gave the situation the attention it deserved, which was naught.  Besides, while he is eating, he is not behaving shamefully, and I have reached my limit of his ridiculous star-struck behavior for the day.”

Sherlock, at least, seemed equitable in handing out shares of his insults.  There was something to be said for that.  Exactly what, though… it would remain as much a mystery as whatever it was of Mrs. Hudson’s currently indulging John.  

      “Mycroft, can your brother be nice to anyone?  At all?  Ever?”

      “Behold, brother dear!  Already Gregory has gleaned the modus operandi of your existence, to spread discord and vilify the entirety of human species.  Further evidence he shall make a commendable Diogenes Bell.”

      “Is he, also, homosexual like your ridiculous and utterly unbelievable character?”

Greg blinked sharply and looked over towards Mycroft who was wearing an expression that one generally made when a bit of sensitive information had been dropped into the center of a conversation where it was precisely not meant to appear.  Bell was gay… that was not featured anywhere in the novels, but what an interesting tidbit of information to add to his mental files.  Given Mycroft didn’t seem ready to discuss it, though, it might be wise to affect a touch of damage control and take up the issue later without the toddler present.

      “So what if I was or wasn’t, Sherlock?  I’ve read all the books and, frankly, Bell could be played by a gay, straight, bi or trans actor if they had the right look and talent.  Bloke goes about his business, does his job, solves crimes and puzzles… you have a problem with gay people, lad?”

      “That would be somewhat hypocritical of me, Lestrade, as well you know.”

      “I sincerely doubt hypocrisy would stand in your way of being evil-tongued, but I’ll credit you that point.  So, tell me, then, what crawled up your bum to toss out _that_ particular question about the character instead of something else?”

It was rare thing for Sherlock to consider what to say because of potential consequences, but he did on this occasion and decided that the actor could not associate with his brother for very long before learning a certain fact and there was no appreciable harm to be done from revealing it now.

      “Because Mycroft is also gay and… reasons.”

      “Reasons?”

      “John says that is considered funny.”

Greg smirked and began to understand that Sherlock had a bit more in common with Mycroft than a surname.  Another unique person in the world, however, was nothing to bemoan.  It would be interesting to see if Mycroft raised the other issue, though.  Honestly, it would be useful insight into writer-character dynamic, especially since that part of Bell never made it onto the page.

      “He’s right!  My brain was a bit stuck in the poisonous plants, I wager, and that’s why I missed your little joke.  Full marks for it, though.  Mycroft how about… oh no.”

Mycroft was, apparently, still fully offline and was simply standing there, staring into space and blinking with a pattern that, in no manner, correlated to the state of dryness of his eyes.

      “This is on you, lad.”

      “Pfft.  Mycroft’s flummoxing cannot be laid at my feet.”

      “I’m laying it at your feet and pouring the rest of it over your head.  Now be nice or else.  Mycroft?  Myyyyyycroooooft?  How about a tidbit from your sweets stash?”

It took a few more moments to bring Mycroft back from his small mental holiday and Sherlock only made one enormous and dramatic sigh during the wait, which Greg took as a small victory.

      “P… pardon?”

      “An aniseed ball?  I could use a little something sweet right now.”

      “Oh, of course.  One moment.”

Greg gave Sherlock a look that forestalled the younger man making a comment at the amount of time it took for Mycroft to retrieve his handcrafted sweets package, unfold it, carefully choose the exact specimen that met whatever criteria he had set for handing one to his guest and actually perform the required handing over.

      “Thanks!  What now?  I suspect there’s more here to see and I’m ready to see every bit of it.”

Seeing Mycroft was still drawing together the threads of his unraveled thoughts, Sherlock chose to step in, else they might be standing there until dawn.

      “Has Mycroft dragged you to his crypt yet?”

      “No, Sherlock, he has not, and I very much would like to see that.  Mycroft, ready for a crypt caper?  Sherlock, you with us for that or do you need to check on John?”

      “John has food and tea, he does not need me.”

      “A poet!  A detective and a poet.  Mycroft, your brother’s a man of many talents.”

      ‘I… that is…”

Sherlock waved off his brother’s continued daze and wrestled with the unfortunate suspicion that the actor’s words were not mocking and… it was profoundly confusing.  Lestrade was not… what he expected.  Not that he would let that be known, of course.

      “I do not consider poetry related to any form of useful talent.  Much like acting.”

      “Not all talents are useful, that’s for certain.  Come on, while we walk I’ll tell you about a few useless talents of mine.  Did your brother tell you I could juggle?”

Mycroft slowly felt the rictus of shock and agitation fading and found his legs following his brother and Greg without the rest of him consciously recognizing the fact.  Gregory… how deftly he handled Sherlock’s drama!  Far too many lashed out, not realizing that this was Sherlock’s hesitant way of testing the waters and keeping strong barriers between any who might cause him emotional harm.  It was so… glorious to see someone simply, as they say, go with the flow, in terms of his brother verbal acidity and give Sherlock the time he needed to take their measure.

And what to say about Gregory’s response to the… issue of sexuality?  There was no upset, at all, to be seen when the revelation was made.  Either of Diogenes Bell or… of him.  So much to analyze… and the sock incident!  Oh dear, he would certainly need a soothing beverage when they returned to the house.  Perhaps several.  Gregory _was_ staying overnight, after all.  His liver best hope it was made of stern stuff for it was soon to be tested to its limit…


	16. Chapter 16

      “John!  Stop smiling.  Immediately.”

A fantastic tour of an incredible piece of property and it ends with a toothy greeting from Sherlock’s partner.  Greg couldn’t see what the boy’s problem happened to be, since it could have been Molly with her shotgun, and that would certainly have put a damper on the day.

      “That’s nice of you, Sherlock.  John’s happy to see you and you act like a bastard.”

      “John is not happy to see me, Lestrade, he is happy to see _you_ and I have had enough of his infatuation for one day.”

Greg’s rude gesture was most interesting, in Mycroft’s opinion, as it seemed to be a variation of one he had noticed before in the village.  Were there dialects for profane gestures?  What an intriguing notion!  And what an interesting plot element that would make for the next book he was mulling.

      “John, ignore this one and come join us for a drink.  Mycroft’s never had alcohol for breakfast, based on his schedule, but I’m ready for something hard and stiff.  We’ve sucked our share of balls today, so time for a bit of a change.”

Mycroft and Sherlock had no idea why John started giggling at the aniseed ball Greg had held up to prove his statement, or why that giggle was echoed by the actor, but they long ago realized that the minds of others were often illogical and unfathomable for the concept of humor.  It was a better use of their energies to simply ignore the situation and usher the other two men towards the sitting room where Mycroft kept a selection of spirits that were mostly consumed by the staff, but he found the look of the various liquids in fine cut crystal pleasant to gaze upon and insisted the various levels be strictly maintained to not mar the aesthetic.  And, it was a room that quickly met with Greg’s staunch approval.

      “ _Very_ nice room, Mycroft.  Looks especially cozy for a long afternoon of reading.  Or for one of those detective types to bring together the suspects to lay out the case and reveal the foul murderer.”

Mycroft felt, again, a small twinge of delight that his personal tastes suited his new acquaintance.  The actor was proving to be a man of appreciable taste.

      “Thank you, Gregory.  It is, in point of fact, one of my preferred rooms for reading.  Or, simply for thought.  For a time, the moon is quite exquisitely framed by that window and it has enhanced many an evening’s contemplation of a particularly-difficult component of a story.”

      “I agree with Mr. Les… Greg, Mycroft.  I could see this room being featured in an Agatha Christie film.”

      “Thank you, also, John.  I do admire Dame Agatha Christie a great deal.”

Greg stepped further into the room and drew in the perfect smell of very old wood and all the history that went with it.

      “Too bad that’s not a scene in _our_ film, Mycroft, because I would love doing a huge reveal like that.”

John’s loud gasp actually had Sherlock growling in frustration as it was now apparent that there would be no dimming of his partner’s lunacy anytime in the near future.

      “ _Our_ film!  Mycroft… oh, please tell me that’s why Greg’s here and Mrs. Hudson wasn’t having a cruel joke at my expense, which is what I thought because she is exactly the type to do that and Molly would back her every step of the way.”

      “I thought, John, that such was evident from Gregory’s statement, however, to confirm… yes, we have agreed that he shall portray Diogenes Bell in the forthcoming film of Bell’s first book.”

      “YES!  He’s going to be in your film!  Oh my god!  He’s perfect!  That’s going to be perfect!  Everything’s perfect!”

      “Waddlecroft!  You have, again, turned John into some form of idiotic jumping bean.  This is your fault and my forgiveness for it you shall never have!”

Greg had to admit that John’s bouncing up and down like a toddler dancing to something on the radio _was_ somewhat reminiscent of a jumping bean, though the beans certainly didn’t have John’s sense of rhythm.

      “Ooh, Sherlock… your brother might consider casting you for that society matron that Bell questions in… I think it was near the middle of the book.  She talked a lot like that and you got the haughty-woman-wearing-an-ugly-broach tone down just perfectly…”

John stopped bouncing enough to start laughing, just a touch giddily, and Mycroft looked back and forth between the other three men, realizing that he’d never actually hosted people in his home like this before and, further, would never have predicted it would be characterized by vitality and mirth, rather than some dreadful tedium or his own desperate desire to race away because the situation was tearing his poor nerves to tiny shreds.  It was a staggeringly confusing thing, but… confusing did not necessarily equate to discomforting.

      “… and, you, John… that doesn’t go on your social media until it’s announced officially or the entertainment press officially leak it unofficially.”

      “Mum’s the word!  Oh, this is going to be the most brilliant thing ever… Greg Lestrade as the brilliant detective, Diogenes Bell… it’s… you’re going to be brilliant in the role.  Just brilliant.  And it’s going to be a brilliant film, too!  Brilliant and… even more brilliant.”

      “Doctor Watson, might you have need of a thesaurus?”

      “No, Mycroft… or yes.  I honestly don’t know.”

Sherlock’s scowl deepened, and he cringed from the prediction of how many periodicals his partner would now collect in their flat because they contained some mention of the ludicrous actor or his brother’s puerile film.  They would be overflowing in paper.  That is… more overflowing than they were, at present.

      “Ugh… my assistant is now irretrievably corrupted.”

      “Sherlock, how about you make an attempt at pouring your corrupted, but perfectly correct as to how brilliant the film is going to be, assistant a nice drink and I’ll do the same for your brother.  Mycroft, what’s your pleasure.”

      “It is Monday.”

      “I’ve been in the US a lot, but I’ve never heard of that cocktail.  Good name for one, though, and I’d expect it to be lethally potent and with the slight flavor of salty tears hitting you at the very last moment.”

Mycroft blinked a second and decided the actor was making some form of joke, which Gregory delighted in doing somewhat often, it seemed.

      “I have whiskey on Monday if the libation is not being enjoyed with dinner.”

      “Whiskey it is!  And I’ll have one, too.  Then, we can enjoy a nice chat about the film to bring John and Sherlock up to speed and whatever else crosses our minds.”

      “Hmmmm…”

      “Was that a yummy hum or a thinking hum?”

      “This is not a conversation room.”

      “Ok… your idea was that we’d simply enjoy a quiet drink, then move somewhere else to chat?”

      “I… no, not precisely.  I am only now realizing the situation.”

      “Well, that’s fine.  We can each get our drink, then move elsewhere.  Maybe the solarium?  Anthea brought me there before and it’s lovely.  Would that work?”

      “It… it might be best.”

      “Excellent idea, then.  Sherlock, hold those drinks and walk them to the solarium, which is a much nicer room for a tranquil stretch, sip and chat.”

      “That is inane.”

      “Thank you!  Now, march.”

John quickly relieved Sherlock of the glasses before the detective’s typically-exaggerated gestures cost him some much-desired fine spirits and whistled for Sherlock to follow after him towards the solarium, which succeeded only because Sherlock felt compelled to make certain John was very aware of the true depths of his blackguardly conduct.

      “Now, one for each of us and off we go.  Any… particular glass you prefer for whiskey, Mycroft?  Some blokes are very specific about that sort of thing.”

      “That is true.  I researched the history of drinkware for _The Feast of Fear_ and the opinions on such issues are most adamant.”

      “How adamant is your opinion?”

      “I am seventy-four percent adamant on using one of the heavier crystal specimens on the left.”

      “Heavy crystal glass with a hefty splash of whiskey, happily sipped in the solarium surrounded by good company and better conversation.  That is a recipe for a good hour or so of relaxation.”

Mycroft agreed heartily, however, usually the situation simply involved himself and himself alone, even for the conversation part and certainly didn’t apply to situations involving his brother, however… Gregory was proving somewhat a catalyst for certain things he would not have credited the actor.  Or, for that matter, any other human being in existence.

And, how marvelous was their tour!  So few took real appreciation of crypt architecture, let alone had intriguing ideas for how such a structure might factor into a murderous mystery, besides the hiding of the body.  Not to mention Gregory’s very correct opinion on which of the trees nearest the house would be best for a hanging.  Hopefully, Gregory might remain awake for some time tonight for there was so very much for them to discuss…

__________

Greg hated to do it, but there was no question that he needed to apologize to Anthea.  A solarium was a wonderful room at night and he was a vulgar bumpkin for thinking otherwise.  Almost like sitting outside enjoying the stars and moon, but without worry about grass stains on your trousers or having something race up the back of your shirt, looking to escape the chill.  Once was quite enough for that sort of thing…

      “Ugh… my brain is shriveling from enforced contact with lesser minds.  John!  We have work to do and it is much more interesting than listening to Mycroft drone on about his insipid children’s stories.”

Sherlock’s tone was not quite as acerbic as normal, but Greg wasn’t entirely certain how much of that to ascribe to the detective’s drained whiskey glass or the fact he’d actually been enjoying their little interlude.  The lad had almost seemed content there for a moment, but maybe he’d just been thinking about kittens or something.  Ok, not kittens.  Murders.  Sherlock seemed to find murders as contenting as his older brother.

      “What work?  We’re on holiday!”

Which had been closer to the holiday John had hoped for but never expected since he had Sherlock along, so shattering that record now would be a crime.  Not a fun one, either.

      “Science never takes a holiday.”

      “Untrue.  And you promised this would be an actual holiday, with fresh air and what passes for English sunshine, and I haven’t heard a single thing to make me change my mind about that.”

      “We have a case.”

      “Lying.”

      “I am not lying.   I simply have yet to inform you of it because… reasons.”

John’s face twisted in confusion and Greg burst out laughing both at John’s bafflement and Sherlock dedication to his one bit of Internet nonsense.

      “You created a monster, John.  Now you have to live with it.  Have fun with that.”

      “What?  Greg what are you going on about?  Sherlock, I’m enjoying myself, so why don’t you toddle off and…”

Sherlock leaned over, whispered something in John’s ear that had John hopping off the sofa and nodding at Mycroft and Greg so quickly it seemed his jumping-bean genes had manifested again in one quick burst.

      “Ummm… we have important work to do, so Mycroft… thank you for this lovely drink and Greg… I hope we see you tomorrow before you leave.”

Watching John nearly run after Sherlock, who had already begun marching out of the room, gave Greg some idea of what the ‘important business’ was and just how long it had been since he’d engaged in that particular type of negotiation.  They were starting early, too, which said one or both of them had a lot of stamina.  Lucky devils…

      “My brother must have framed a new research question while we enjoyed our tour.  It is a common thing for him and John does indulge Sherlock to an astounding degree.”

Very lucky devils, indeed…

      “Compromise _is_ good for relationships.  As is indulgence.  Now, though, that means we have the rest of the evening to ourselves… still fancy that film we were considering?”

      “Most certainly, if you are amenable.  I… I set aside a title I thought might be suitable.”

      “Smart.  Oh!  Get your measuring tape or whatever you want to use for my socks.  Let’s do that first, so we don’t forget.”

Mycroft’s face shifted so rapidly from delighted to distressed that Greg felt the shockwave from across the room.

      “I… no, no that is not necessary.”

To the actor, this felt like a Defcon situation and he’d been in two movies that featured that scale, so he felt confident about dragging it from his mental imagery portfolio and pressing it into service.

      “Sure it is!  We already established that you needed data for your analysis and it’ll only take a few moments, so let me turn up my trousers and…”

      “It… thank you, but I have decided a… against that analysis.”

That was halting and hesitant, even for Mycroft.  Slipping another notch into the danger range on the Defcon scale.

      “Want to tell me why?”

      “No.”

That wasn’t halting or hesitant.  Not in the slightest.  Something was terribly wrong and Greg Lestrade wasn’t a man to let that continue if there was anything in the world he could do about it.  And, the most awful thing, was that he had a good idea of what the wrong thing was, and it was enough to break his old, slightly fatty and embarrassingly tender heart.

      “A man has a right to his private thoughts, that’s for certain…”

      “Thank you, Gregory.”

      “… so, I’ll tell you instead.  Or, rather, I’ll say that I’ve known a lot of gay men in my life and never, not a single time, worried about them beginning some form of sexual assault by touching my ankle.”

Mycroft startled so sharply that he nearly fell over and Greg shot out of his chair to catch him, if necessary.  When Mycroft steadied himself enough not to fall, Greg still stayed standing because Mycroft’s pallor had gone dead white and he appeared as if he’d seen the most frightening apparition from the foulest and most terrifying horror story ever written.  None of which Greg had predicted from his words.  At most, he thought he might spark some anger or sense of insult… certainly nothing like this, but he’d forgotten, to his discredit, that he wasn’t talking to someone who might respond to things like other people would in the same situation.

      “I would _never_ assault you!”

Now, Mycroft was shaking, whether with anger or upset, Greg didn’t know, but when it was combined with sharp twitches of his fingers as if he was desperate to grab something or tap something to do _something_ that helped calm him down, the anger hypothesis got kicked into the rubbish and Greg turned his full worry onto the distress theory and how he could help with that.  Especially since it was completely his fault and on him to take responsibility.  But… that help could only happen if he dug out the tumor that started this cancer growing.

      “Exactly.  I know that.  I know that one-hundred percent and I wouldn’t doubt it for a second.  And, I know that _you_ know, as well.  So why are you worried about touching my ankle?  You are, too, so don’t lie about it.  Talk to me, Mycroft, so I can understand.”

Seeing Mycroft was only getting more and more agitated, Greg paused a moment, then reached out and took hold of the whiskey glass that miraculously remained in Mycroft’s hand, since he felt very certain that touching Mycroft himself would not be a good idea at the moment.  However, some connection seemed… important.

      “Is… is this a good room for you now, Mycroft?  Is there someplace you might feel better talking about this with me?  We’re going to be working together and it’s important for both of us to understand each other so that work is successful… and I genuinely want to help, if there’s any way I possibly can.”

      “I… my study?”

      “Let’s go.”

Greg kept hold of the glass and walked with Mycroft, who also held fast to the crystal, towards the study and felt no surprise when Mycroft darted forward to his desk to pick up a glass sphere near his computer monitor and begin moving his hands around the cool, smooth surface.

      “It’s a lovely thing, Mycroft.  Is there a story that goes with it?”

      “Th… there is.”

      “Would you be willing to share it with me?”

Greg smiled his gentlest smile and held it while Mycroft’s eyes darted about, only occasionally taking the risk of meeting his own.

      “I saw it.  It was in a second-hand shop window, when I was a b… boy and it…”

Greg stayed silent as Mycroft drew a breath that seemed, along with having his hands on a favorite object and being in an also-favorite space, to calm his distress, at least a little.

      “… it beguiled me.  I had read of these, crystal balls, in so many stories, seen them in any number of films.  I saved every bit of money I could until I could purchase it.  An utterly useless object, which befuddled my parents, for its cost was not a cheap one, but… I have cherished it greatly.  I have others, too, larger ones, but this one… it fits perfectly in my hands…”

      “That it does.  The exact sort of thing to hold and fiddle with when there’s something on your mind, whether it be a story point or a problem.  And, since we have something of a problem to work through, is there a place in here you’d prefer to sit and talk?”

      “Perhaps…”

      “Yes?”

      “I do enjoy sitting up there for a quiet moment away from my desk.”

Mycroft nodded up towards the space above them, near the windows, where there were two comfortable-looking chairs and a small table, just perfect for sharing a little conversation on a pleasant evening.  Or a not-so-little conversation on a somewhat unpleasant evening…

      “Looks perfect.  Lead the way?”

Nodding again, Mycroft led Greg up the ornate spiral staircase and took one of the seats, leaving the other for the actor.

      “This is really nice, Mycroft.  I can see why you’d find this peaceful.  Surrounded by books and the view is magnificent.  I’m happy you have this spot, I really am.  I’m not happy, though, that something very ugly went through your mind and if I can help, I want to do it.  Can you tell me why you changed your mind about the socks analysis?”

This time, Mycroft’s sigh was more of the type one gives when one has resigned oneself to whatever is to come, but one knows whatever it is, it’s not going to be easy or end the way one might want it to.

      “I… I suppose I worried that you might be made uncomfortable, given Sherlock’s revelation.”

Implying Mycroft had known others who _had_ been made uncomfortable when they found out about him.  But no assuming on this one, only going with facts.  This was too important to get wrong.

      “Have others felt that way when they learned you were gay?”

The rueful smirk on Mycroft’s lips made Greg want to find every single one of those people and do his best to make them see the error of their ways.  The amount of blood they lost in the process would only create space for better, more decent and human-worthy blood to take its place.

      “I’m sorry for that, Mycroft.  I am very, very sorry that you had to experience it.  I know a lot of people who went through similar when they came out and… it’s not right, it’s not fair and it’s certainly not acceptable, so I hate that you were made to feel bad about who you were.  But… you really took a bad turn when I tossed of the line about you assaulting me, which I apologize for since I really did _not_ think you’d take it that seriously and I feel horrible about it.  Mycroft, did… did someone think you might… do something horrid to them, after they learned you were gay?”

A quick cut of his eyes towards Greg was all Greg needed to see the pain they held and he both kicked himself and gave a sage nod of his mental mind for taking that particular approach of getting the truth out of the author.  Some dumb fucker… or fuckers… had that idiotic and bigoted idea that gay men were sexual predators, probably child molesters, too, and let Mycroft know it.  Why did people have to be so terrible?  There was no reason for it and it made the world a much, much darker and miserable place.

      “Is that also why you never actually put in the books that Bell was gay?  You were worried people wouldn’t move past that to see what a genius he was and fall in love with your books?”

      “Partly.”

      “Want to tell me about it?”

Greg knew he wasn’t an actual detective, but it seemed as if Mycroft was losing more of his upset as they talked, though he was now holding his crystal ball close to his chest as if he was holding a childhood talisman against the evils of the world.

      “Ultimately… it was my decision.  When I finished _The Devil’s in the Details_ , I gave it to my publisher to read and he very much enjoyed it.  However…”

      “He didn’t like Bell being gay.”

      “He did not care about that in the slightest.  Personally.  But, he reminded me that the market for that particular genre was a somewhat… traditional… one.  Though the times and the sensibilities were changing, there were still many who might accept a gay character as the villainous murderer or a dreadfully-cliched effete gay man who was used for comic affect… he was willing, most willing, in point of fact, to publish the book as it was, but he knew well my actual reason for writing it, which was money.  I needed money, and I am not using the term ‘needed’ lightly.  I wrote the book specifically to earn necessary funds for both myself and my brother and… though I put my heart, mind and soul into the writing, the cold, sharp truth of its conception could not be denied.  Though I had the full support of my publisher and complete confidence he would do everything possible to market my book aggressively and address any possible complaints, I chose to remove the few small references that indicated Bell’s sexuality.  In hindsight, I still cannot fault my decision, for the ends I desired were fully met by the means.”

      “Did you ever consider putting that back into one of the later novels?  After you’d built your reputation in mystery writing?”

      “Oh… at times.  After a few books, though, inserting that particular aspect of the character into the mix seemed a bit… artificial.  If I was a reader, it would ring a touch false and I would wonder what was the author’s motive for introducing that now, as opposed to including it from the very onset.  I explicitly did not wish Bell’s sexuality to be perceived as… a gimmick.  Something specifically to appeal to the growing number of younger readers entering the mystery world.  I could not have that happen; I simply could not.  The window for such a thing was the first book and I chose to let the window remain closed.  In terms of the character himself… it has not made a difference in his behavior, talents or growth, so I do not bemoan that only a few know of what was never revealed.  I do not regret my decision, but I do, at times, taste the bitterness of shame upon my tongue from it.”

Greg wished more than anything he could just give Mycroft a massive hug, but suspected the writer might not, at all, be comfortable with the gesture, so did as he did before, this time moving across the space that separated the two chairs, to squat down next to Mycroft’s pressed-together legs and reach out to lay two fingers on the crystal ball in Mycroft’s hands.

      “You shouldn’t feel shame for that, Mycroft, not a bit.  You did what you had to do, even if it was painful, and that’s something, actually to be proud of.  But… I know a little how you feel.  I’ve done work I didn’t take a lot of pride in, as an actor, because I needed the money.  Like you say, the ends were met by the means, but I look back on some of that and really wish it wasn’t forever immortalized on film.  But, we move on and use what we gained from that, money or otherwise, to do more and better work in the future.  I’d love to say you should have just published the original book and devil take the bastards who might object, but I also know we live in the real world and it’s a nasty, harsh place sometimes.  If I could, I’d do _anything_ to change that nastiness and harshness, but the best I can do is say those horrible people aren’t me.  I’m happy the world is filled with different people.  It makes the world so much more interesting and amazing.  I love working with people who are different from me because their life experiences bring good things to the table that supplement their talents and skills for film-making.  And, frankly, it makes them _them_ , who is someone I’m happy and proud to know.  You are an amazing man, Mycroft Holmes.  A unique, brilliant, gay, wildly interesting, creative, funny, humbug-loving man and I am eagerly awaiting the results of your Great Paisley Pondering so we can make real and useful progress on the socks issue.  And, dare I say it, begin the debate on belt or braces.  I don’t believe you ever stated clearly which sort of man Bell is for that and I’m wondering if now might just be the time to take that challenge head on.”

What had been an encouraging smile on Greg’s face grew as he saw a glow build in Mycroft’s eyes.  Part of it was colored in the particular shade that said the writer had latched onto the new detail with both hands and part of it was colored with the particular shade that spoke volumes about how much Greg’s words had meant to the man who had no idea how to say it, but whose brain was doing it’s best to show it, instead, by slowly pushing the crystal globe forward so Greg could take it and hold it himself.

      “It’s a heavy bugger!  I should have thought of that.  It’s a grand thing, though… and it does feel lovely to hold.”

While Greg played a moment with the crystal ball, Mycroft took the opportunity to savor the extremely welcome sensation of feeling… supported.  Supported and valued.  Perhaps, even… understood… which was the rarest of the rare.

      “The weight is notable, that is certainly the case.  We can examine the other of my balls, if you like, though… after I complete my measurements.”

Greg grinned widely and not only because Mycroft was the most verbally-innocent person he had ever met.

      “I’d love that!”

      “Excellent.  And what a fresh conundrum you present with the belt or braces proposition.”

      “Thought you’d like that one.  As an actor, it’s important, too, because what you’re wearing affects how you move, as well as how you feel when you’re presenting the character during filming.  So, to sum up, we’ve got very critical measurements to take, balls to inspect, a belt-or-braces battle to wage and a cracking-good film to watch.  This is, I must say, a properly fantastic evening.”

Especially since you, Mr. Holmes. are smiling again and it does my heart very, very good to see it.

      “I concur.  Let me retrieve my calipers and a notepad.”

      “Calipers?”

      “Vernier calipers are far more precise than a standard measuring tape.”

      “I’ve learned something new!  Want me to wait here?”

      “Yes, though I shall need you to sit in your chair, so I may access your ankle.”

      “Back in the chair I go.  Can I continue on with my ball-fondling?”

      “Yes.  Yes, I believe that is most acceptable.”

Mycroft darted back down the twisty staircase and Greg took his seat, stretching out and nodding his thanks to the heavy piece of crystal in his hands.  Mycroft might need a bit of careful handling sometimes, but it was certainly worth it.  That it seemed the writer had lacked that for portions of his life, though, was a tragedy that Greg Lestrade was not going to see happen again.  No matter what, he could always maintain some connection, phone or pay a visit, so Mycroft had someone he could count on to remind him that he was nothing short of exceptional, and not just as a writer.  One of the advantages of being rich and famous, you could always find time for the exceptional things in life…


	17. Chapter 17

      “Turn a little left… a bit more… ok, now let’s do a few without your jacket.”

      “John!  I object to this nonsensical playacting.”

Especially since Sherlock’s intended romantic interlude had been rudely interrupted by Mrs. Hudson banging on their bedroom door to demand all possible samples of belts and braces the sexually-aroused duo might have in their possession.  That John, the fame-besotted cur, had immediately leapt out of bed to begin looking would forever mar the doctor’s permanent record.

      “It’s not playacting, Sherlock.  Do you have any idea how much these photos will be worth someday?  Greg Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes in early wardrobe discussions for their first film collaboration?  The belts or braces question burning in their minds as they tried different examples of each to decide what the brilliant detective Diogenes Bell would sport when he was making use of that brilliance to bring some dastardly murderer to justice?  This is our retirement fund solved in one night, so you just sit there, resign yourself to the fact that not everything in the world is about you, and let me get on with my job.  I think we might need different lighting, though, for this next round.  Greg, move back a little so the lamp catches you at an angle.  That’ll highlight your jawline.”

Not that Greg had a choice in the matter, since Mrs. Hudson and Molly were taking their ‘pose the model’ duties very seriously and were fully on board with the night’s extremely serious investigation.  Once Mycroft had the measurements and photographs to ponder for the paisley issue, attention had turned to the next question where quickly it was decided that physical modeling of the objects in question would be beneficial, given the success with the foot-shrouded socks.  That had instigated a search of the house for all examples of belts and braces, then a rush trip into the village for Molly to wake her uncle and drag him to his clothing shop to rent his entire selection of necessary items for their experiment.  Now, the experiment was coming to a close, which had been marked by the entire household making comment and debating qualities of Bell that fit of didn’t fit every new accessory Greg sported, all the while Mycroft scripting furious notes and specifying photographs that John, who had very willingly volunteered to act as photojournalist for their documentary, should snap to add to his evaluation portfolio.

On Greg’s part, he hadn’t enjoyed a modeling session so much in years!  And this one had a more demanding photographer and media executives than most.  Mycroft was ferocious for detail, even if they were the sort that nobody besides the writer could possibly see as important or notice in the first place.  But, it was actually giving _him_ a great many insights into the character he was going to play and, as importantly, it was making Mycroft happy, so the rewards from this bit of work were overflowing his personal treasure chest, because he was having a ball and that was not something he generally expected when he had to pose for the cameras.

      “How’s this, John?”

And, since this _wasn’t_ going into a magazine, he could make his most ridiculous model faces and poses which made Sherlock gag to add to rubies to that chest of treasures

      “Ooh!  Blue Steel ahoy!  Perfect.  Mycroft… I have to say that, as a fan of both Greg and your character, I’m leaning towards braces.”

Mycroft’s exceptionally-somber look of contemplation prompted Greg to finally begin removing his jacket to make the braces more visible, slowly at first, then with more panache as music played in his head and it turned into somewhat more of a striptease than he’d planned, but the ladies’ catcalls and Charles’s ‘oh, very good, sir’ simply encouraged his nonsense.  He did take care, though, not to toss the removed jacket at Mycroft, instead, flinging it at Sherlock who quickly re-flung it onto the ground as if Greg had thrown him an angry cat.

      “What say, Mycroft?  You agree with John or do you need more time to think?”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes to keenly inspect every aspect of Greg’s appearance, rapidly flicked through his pages of notes and snapped his fingers for John to hand him the mobile, and the trillions of photos it contained, to flick through them as rapidly as the handwritten notes before he handed it back, took a deep breath and nodded.

      “Yes, I am of a mind, at the moment, that braces are the correct option.  I shall not make a final pronouncement until I have given the matter greater thought, but my confidence level is high that my stand shall not change on the issue.”

Greg gave his braces a triumphant tug and snap, while enjoying the small round of applause that Mycroft’s decision merited from the rest of the house.  Not that it really made much difference, but he’d grown partial to the braces, himself.

      “I have to say that I’m glad that’s the direction you’ll probably go, Mycroft.  They feel right, in terms of my own impressions of Bell.  He’s not stodgy, but does have that traditional streak that makes me think he’d wear braces.  Now, of course… we have decisions to make about color and/or pattern.  I see a lot of work ahead of us, but I have no doubt we’re up to the challenge.”

All of which was making Mycroft’s eyes light brightly, which had been Greg’s intention.  The man positively adored these little things and they were, really, so very easy to accommodate…

      “Victory shall be ours, Gregory, my mind is very clear on that fact.”

And, with that pronouncement, Sherlock vaulted out of his seat like the angry cat he had not been thrown, though his hissing made the household take a second look just to be certain.

      “Finally!  John!  We have matters to discuss and, if you are highly fortunate, sex to continue.  That will depend wholly upon your renouncing your position as lapdog for Lestrade.”

John being dragged out of the study while trying to negotiate laphedgehog instead of lapdog firmed in Greg’s mind the decision to send along to their flat copies of some of his early-years modeling photos which were best described as steamy and worth a bloody fortune when you could find them online for sale.  Sherlock would explode and John would dissolve, which seemed sciency enough for Sherlock’s scientific brain would to appreciate if any of it survived being blown into teeny-tiny bits.

      “Will you be needing us for anything else, Mr. Holmes?”

      “Oh… no, Charles, not at present.  Gregory and I have matters to tend to and should be at home the rest of the night.”

      “Very good, sir.”

All the belts and braces samples were collected to return to their various owners and Greg was happy his trousers stood fast on their own since Mrs. Hudson didn’t leave him much time to grab drooping garments as she retrieved the braces holding up his dignity.

      “Are our matters a film, my gracious host?”

      “I thought it appropriate.  The final data analysis for this endeavor will involve my full attention and I have not that to give tonight, nor do I wish to when there are more… fun… entertainments beckoning.”

There was something in Greg’s mind that said Mycroft using the word ‘fun’ was not a common thing and his heart ached a little because of it.  Fortunately, a certain actor had untold skills for making things fun and was ready and willing to use them.

      “Then let’s get started!”

      “We have not prepared.”

Well, that couldn’t stand, even if the concept of preparation for a film on the sofa was a bit unclear at the moment.

      “Ok, then show me what we need to do _to_ prepare and we’ll get started on that first.”

      “Excellent.  This shall go much more quickly with two sets of hands than one.”

Unclear was getting unclearer!  But, since it likely didn’t involve firearms or calculus, chances were the extra set of hands in question could manage somehow.  If not, it was a certainty that Mycroft would detail the inevitable errors and wait patiently for them to be corrected.  Or, maybe, _not_ so patiently for the really stupid ones, but who didn’t work faster with a taskmaster giving their head a knock?  Hopefully, though, the knocks weren’t too painful because watching a film with a headache was something of a let-down…

__________

This was precisely the opposite of a let-down…

      “Mycroft… you have a cinema.”

      “I do.”

      “With an actual film projector.”

      “Yes.”

In what appeared to be several cellar rooms that had been merged into one so that a suitably dark space could be created, as well as one, perhaps, that wouldn’t keep certain staff members awake when the head of the household decided he wanted to watch a film in very grand style.

      “And we have popcorn.  Real popcorn.”

      “Real?  Dear me… I had no idea that unreal popcorn existed.  Is it some form of… oh, the rather crazed ‘health nuts’ do fabricate edibles from the most appalling ingredients, at times.  I would not be surprised if they bastardized popcorn through some dreadful use of rutabaga or Brussels sprouts.”

      “No, I meant the sort of popcorn you pay a bloody fortune for at the cinema just to have it clog your arteries a little more and drag you that extra step closer to death.”

      “Oh, I see.  Yes, Mrs. Hudson is most adept at preparing my small nibble.”

Small?  There were eating their small nibble out of tubs the size of a rain barrel!  Enormous, buttery, salty, smells-better-than-the-best-sex-of-your-life-feels nibble was more like it…

      “And I’ve got an icy cold, sugary Coke to wash the goodness down my throat.  It’s amazing!”

      “Charles is rather fond of that particular beverage, so we stock a healthy supply.  I am more partial to the diet variety of such things.”

Mycroft’s happily waggled beverage made zero sense, to Greg’s mind, given there were a billion calories in the popcorn, not to mention the sweets Mycroft had in his film-watching snack supply, but humans were nothing if not complex creatures.

      “And seats.  Those, Mycroft, are actual cinema seats and I have a professional eye for that sort of thing.”

      “That they are.  I wished, most sincerely, to craft the most authentic experience for these small interludes.”

There was a soft, wistful smile on Mycroft’s lips that told Greg ‘these small interludes’ likely played a large part in the lonely youth of a certain writer with whom he was currently conversing.

      “Spent a lot of time at the cinema when you were young, did you?”

      “Scads.  There was a small venue near our home and… it was a glorious place to lose myself for a few hours.”

      “Sir, shall we be commencing your film soon or should I return at a later time?”

The unexpected voice made both men jump slightly and, then, giggle at their silliness.  However, if there was anything more deserving of a startled jump than a disembodied voice in a darkened theatre in the cellar of a murder-asylum, Greg had no desire to learn what it was.

      “I do apologize Charles.  Yes, we are ready.  Gregory, please have a seat.”

Mycroft moved to a seat on the small row of lifted-from-a-cinema seats and did the proper bum-nudging to lower the bum-supporting element, then plopped down  to settle in for their film.

      “Ready to commence sitting procedure.  This is going to be fun.  What are…”

      “Oh…”

Greg stopped mid-motion and felt only marginally ridiculous freezing in a wildly-awkward position of being bent over with his bum jutting out and hovering just above the still-vertical seat.

      “Problem, Mycroft?”

      “I…”

Problem exists!  Apply Mycroftian situational lens!  Was preparing to sit down, in this seat… ok… got it.  Maybe.

      “Might you prefer having the seat next to you left empty.”

      “The likelihood of elbow contact is punishingly high.”

      “That’s very true.  Hard to rest your arm after a vigorous popcorn-lifting experience and not giving the bloke next to you a bit of a nudge.  Taking the seat two along from you.  Re-commencing sitting procedure and aaaahhh… perfect.  My elbows have never felt so free.”

      “It truly is a jubilant thing.”

      “That it is.  Charles!  Looks like we’re set to go!”

      “Very good, Mr. Lestrade.  I shall manage the reel changes, so simply relax and enjoy your film.”

      “Mycroft… I envy you.”

      “There is much to envy about me, I do admit.”

And he’s not being cheeky.  You just want to pinch the cheek of someone like that… but won’t because the outcome will not be a happy giggle and an ‘oh you’ wave of his hand.

      “What are we watching?”

      “ _Arsenic and Old Lace_.”

      “Yes!  Oh, that’s a brilliant choice.  You actually have a film version of that and not a DVD?”

      “I have somewhat an impressive private collection of classic choices on film.  I appreciate the quality of the viewed product to a simple video or a streamed title, however, I also recognize the convenience of the latter options and have a sizeable collection of titles in those formats, as well.”

      “Again, I am mightily impressed.  Might I know, however, your view on conversation during a film?”

      “Hmmmm…”

      “That doesn’t sound positive.”

      “If it is a film I have never viewed, I frown on such a thing, but I have seen this one a great many times.”

      “So… is your view that conversation during an oft-viewed film is permissible?”

      “To some degree.”

      “Can I count on you to let me know if I’ve overdone the degree?”

      “Of course.  It would impolite to shush you without first remarking that the conversational threshold was being approached.”

      “I feel very relieved.”

      “Excellent.  Now, shush… our film is starting.”

Greg grinned widely and slid down in his seat exactly as he did when he was a lad and a magical film was playing on the big screen.  This screen was smaller than that, but the film was just as magical, and he had a Mycroft to chat with, as a bonus.  Briefly chat with, that is.  In very hushed tones…

__________

      “I don’t care how old it is, that film is brilliant.  Anyone who thinks otherwise is an idiot.”

      “I wholeheartedly agree, Gregory.  The repartee is positively scintillating.”

      “Cary Grant is a bonafide pro with the repartee.”

      “Most certainly.”

      “It was hard to know when I was a lad who I wanted to shag more, Cary Grant or Douglas Fairbanks, Jr., since they both put the stars in my eyes, but Grant had that extra zip that won him my imagined throes of passion.  Not that I had much idea what those were when I was fourteen or so, but… Mycroft?  Oh no…”

Tossing the last few remaining popcorn kernels at the writer didn’t reboot his processor, so Greg tried the finger snapping strategy and met with as little success.  Worrying that this new forced shutdown of Mycroft’s mental computer might damage the circuitry if it continued too long, the rash decision was made to flick a few droplets of watered-down Coca Cola onto Mycroft’s face, which quickly contorted into an expression one generally associates with a feline who has experienced the same insult.

      “Ok, that’s better.  Want to tell me where you went there for a moment?”

      “Gregory…”

      “That is my name, yes.”

      “You…”

      “I am me, yes.”

      “You… fantasized about intimate relations with a man?”

      “Oh yeah.  Lots of times.”

There was definitely a tilt towards another processor failure, but Greg’s preemptive Coke flicking kept Mycroft’s mental machinery humming along in proper working order.

      “Gregory… you… you are gay?”

      “No.”

      “What?  I believe… does that not… I am confused.”

      “There’s other options, you know.”

      “Do I?”

That was actually a good question.

      “I would have thought so.  You’re not exactly isolated from the world and it’s… comings and goings.”

      “That was not particularly clarifying.”

Relying on the wink-wink nudge-nudge strategy was working as well as it might for a unsharpened pencil.  Time for the straightforward approach.

      “I have a taste for men, yes.  I also have a taste for women.”

      “You lick your sexual partners?”

      “Oh my god… ok, I take back my ‘oh my god’ because, yes, I do lick my sexual partners, among other tongue-based activities, but focus on the men _and_ women bit for a moment.”

      “I am focusing.”

He’s squinting.  The squint is intensifying.  All this needed was David Attenborough narrating the sequence for it to be a BBC-worthy documentary.

      “Are you…”

      “Say it, Mycroft.  It’s burning a hole in your eyes.”

      “That makes absolutely no sense.”

      “I’m bisexual!”

      “I thought you wanted _me_ to say that.”

      “It seemed to be causing you pain.  I couldn’t live with that on my conscience.”

      “Oh… that is most kind of you.”

      “Thank you.”

However, the look on your face says we’re not done with this discussion.  Not in the slightest…

      “But… Gregory… there is no mention of that in your various interviews and such.  I read a number, and, in fact, mention was made frequently of your tremendous appeal to your female audience, as well as your female sexual conquests.”

      “Conquests is an unchivalrous word, don’t you think?”

      “You may have a point.”

      “Matches the one on top of my head.  But, seriously, my sexuality isn’t something I advertise, though it’s not really a secret.  I suspect most of what’s in those interviews isn’t me bringing up the topic, but the interviewer trying to get information out of me about who I’m currently fucking.  I’ll admit, though, that the various studios publicity departments keep mum when it’s a man I’m seeing, as opposed to when I have a woman on my arm, but _I_ don’t hide it any more than I would make a show of keeping company with a woman when that’s the story.  I keep my private life private, in general, and I’m actually boring enough _in_ that private life that the paparazzi aren’t hiding in my shrubbery very often, because they’ve learned through sad experience that all it will win them is a night that could have been better spent spying on someone more exciting.”

      “I see.”

      “Really?”

      “No, it simply seemed polite to say so.”

      “I appreciate politeness in any and all forms, but you don’t have to be right now if you don’t want to.  What is it you don’t actually see, and I’ll try to make it clearer.”

      “I… I honestly don’t know.  I suppose it is simply more a condition of being somewhat…”

      “Shocked?”

      “That is not the worst possible descriptor of the situation.”

      “Is it that you had an image of me and now you’ve got a piece of data that doesn’t fit with that neat and tidy picture?”

      “That… that is certainly something I find distressing under the best of circumstances.”

      “And these aren’t?”

      “I…dash it all, Gregory, you are bamboozling me again!”

      “I’m so talented I don’t even know when I’m bamboozling and when I’m not.  I’ve bamboozled myself!”

Mycroft’s irritation was manifested by his own throwing of popcorn at Greg’s smugly-grinning face, though he took pains to carefully wipe his fingers afterwards since those kernels had been pointedly not consumed as they contained far too much butter for the butter/salt ratio range he found acceptable.

      “Looks like your shock is fading.  Hard to have great aim when you’re shocked.”

The loud huff coming from the author made Greg’s grin widen and he risked moving himself to the seat next to Mycroft since there wasn’t, now, the excuse of elbow violations to prevent the proximity.  And there was still something in Mycroft’s demeanor that said they’d not reached the over-and-done-with portion of the conversation.

      “There’s no problem, though, right?  You’re still the same Mycroft Holmes I knew before I knew about your preferences… is it any different for me?  Does this change what you think about me?”

      “Yes.”

Not the hoped-for response, but with Mycroft that might not necessarily be a bad thing.

      “Can you tell me why?”

      “No, because I do not understand it yet, myself.”

      “The piece that’s not fitting is a bit larger than you might have expected?”

      “Perhaps.  It was much the same as the first night we met.”

      “You had a complete image of me, or so you thought, and the big, bright, shiny new pieces didn’t mesh at all with what was already there.”

      “To some degree… is it not a jarring thing to discover something like that?”

      “Maybe to some.  It’s happened to me, now and again, I can’t deny that.  Most often, though, I find it exhilarating.  There’s always more to discover about a person.  Even when you think you know them, they can still surprise you.  I’ve known that bastard Anderson for years and he still offers surprises.  Usually of the stench-producing sort, but surprises, nonetheless.  But, I can see why some people might have a different opinion.”

Greg watched Mycroft sit silently for a moment, worrying his lower lip a bit as he stared into the nearly-empty tub on his lap.  At least Mycroft was thinking.  Thinking was a good thing.  Usually.

      “I… Anthea enjoys mango.”

      “The tortoise has green eyes.”

      “I do not understand.”

      “I thought we were taking in code.”

      “No.”

      “Ok, back to Anthea.  You say she likes mangoes.  They have their purpose, I suppose, but they taste a bit… piney for me.”

      “I did not know she enjoyed them until two months and four days ago when she requested Charles prepare for her a… mangorita.  The color was horrifying, but… the flavor was surprisingly agreeable.”

      “So, you recently learned something new about your agent.  Yeah, it does happen now and again.  And liking mango is a lot more paradigm-shifting than being bisexual.”

      “Incorrect.”

      “Very correct.  You don’t have to see me doing any bisexy things, but you _do_ have to see her eating mango.  With the sticky, orange juice on her face and the stringy bits you sometimes get caught between her teeth.”

Mycroft looked so terrified of encountering that situation that Greg genuinely regretted bringing it up.

      “No… no, that shall not happen.  It _cannot_.”

Regret rising like dough in a warm room!

      “I have no doubt you’re right.  None at all.  Anthea strikes me as a very tidy person.”

      “I shall forbid any form of mango enter this house!”

New rule – no teasing Mycroft about mangoes or any other form of stone fruit.

      “How about, instead, forbid eating one in a manner that would make a properly-fastidious person have the vapors?  You said you did like your mangorita,so that would keep you from having another, which seems, to me, to a bit of self-torture you don’t deserve.  And, as a little tidbit from my vast experience with things like that, you can toss in some strawberries to alter the color if it bothers you too much.  Changes the flavor, too, but I actually prefer strawberry margaritas, anyway, so I’m a bit biased.”

      “That… thank you, Gregory, that _may_ suffice.”

      “Good.  Now… are we ok?”

      “I do not understand.”

Not feeling the sharp surge of surprise another conversation might impart.

      “Are we still ok to do things like watch a film together and chat about it afterwards?”

      “Oh, yes.  Of course!  I suppose my words might have made you believe otherwise, but such a thing never crossed my mind, I assure you.”

      “Alright, then.  Looks like we have that settled.  Care to get started on the chatting for this one?  I have a lot of thoughts about this film and would love to hear how they complement yours.  Or how fuc… stupidly daft you think they are.”

      “I look most forward to dissecting this film with you.  Might we do that in my study?”

      “The perfect place!  Any chance for another Coke while we chat?  Maybe a spot of rum to add to it, as well?”

      “Hmmm… you are most fond of mixed cocktails.”

      “My dad feels nothing but shame when he drags me to his local and I forget where I am and order something embarrassing.  Tasty is tasty, though, no matter how the tastiness is made.  So… off we go?”

      “Yes.  Though…”

Greg’s arse was out of the seat, but dropped back down at the tone in Mycroft’s voice.

      “Yeah?”

      “Gregory… why did you not reveal this information to me earlier?”

      “I’ve only met you a few times, Mycroft, and it’s not a thing that generally comes up in… oh.  Oh, you mean earlier _tonight_ , don’t you?”

      “Yes.  It seems it… the time would seem to have been an appropriate one.”

      “To be honest, I thought about it, but that would have turned the conversation away from where it needed to be, which was directly on you.  That moment was all for and completely about you, Mycroft, not me.  And, I know it bothers me when I’m talking about something, something important, that is, and the person I’m talking to is more interested in bringing up their own experiences than listening to mine.  You know the sort.  You want to talk about your mum being sick and they start talking about when their mum or dad was sick.  You break off a relationship with someone and they start talking about their last failed love affair.  I know they mean it kindly, trying to show, maybe, they understand what you’re going through and do a little of that ‘I survived!’ thing to make you optimistic, feel more hopeful, but… it’s always seemed a touch self-involved to me.  Again, though, other people have other opinions.”

      “I see.  In truth, I cannot say it is a viewpoint lacking foundation.”

Was that good?  Well, Mycroft would surely let him know if it wasn’t.

      “In the interests of full disclosure, though, I will admit that I intentionally mentioned it just now because it _did_ seem an opportune time.  If we hadn’t had our earlier… chat… I probably wouldn’t have, since it didn’t matter to anything we were doing, at least not today.  My friends know about me, though, so I would have mentioned it to you at some point, probably exactly the same way I did tonight because Cary Grant isn’t the only film star that has enticed me from a very young age and this film or that would have started me pining again over a love that never could be.”

Oh no, he’s blue-screen-of-deathing again!

      “Mycroft?  Come on, Mycroft, we can’t discuss our film if you’re just frozen up and blinking, now can we?”

That it took a few more moments of coaxing to bring Mycroft back to the land of the living did concern Greg, though not as much as the fervent gleam that filled Mycroft’s eyes when his processor was letting data flow through again.

      “Gregory…”

      “Ummm…. yes?”

      “Am I… you consider me your friend?”

Mycroft had an uncanny way of making Greg’s heart break and this time it hurt more than ever before.

      “Yes, Mycroft, I do.  Is that alright with you?”

      “Yes.  Yes, it _is_ alright with me.  Would you… would you take offense if I also claimed you as my friend?”

Heart hurting now than even it did a moment ago.  One simple, little word, but it meant the very world to Mycroft…

      “I’d consider it an honor!  Thank you for that – a higher-quality friend I could not hope to have.”

      “That is most certainly true.  Now, I believe it is time to return to my study and continue our discussion.  I shall ring for Mrs. Hudson to provide your cocktail and I may…. yes, I _shall_ join you.  I am feeling most brash and exotic tonight.”

Greg laughed at Mycroft’s highly-excited expression and congratulated himself on achieving friendness with the world’s best and most benignly-brash mystery author.  Definitely something to be proud of and he wasn’t actually joking about that because it was tragically clear that Mycroft’s friends were few and far between.  Well, the realm of friend-potentials didn’t know what it was missing.  It was actually a shame he had to be back in London tomorrow because it would be nice to simply enjoy another day or so with his new friend, but… oh, right.  Tomorrow was a writing day and he’d be the only one awake during the actual day, anyway.  Definitely some tricky details to sort out to move this friendedness forward, but there was time enough for that.

For now, it was time for rum and Coke, as well as some contented sighing over one of his favorite films.  Pity the poor paparazzi hiding in Mycroft’s shrubbery because they were in for some boring photos of two middle-aged men chatting a very proper distance apart in comfortable chairs, sipping the simplest of mixed drinks.  However, some people’s boring was other people’s bliss…


	18. Chapter 18

Greg knew he should have gotten some sleep, but sleeping would have cut into the time spent talking about classic films with Mycroft and making a start on discussing the book that inspired the film which brought him into Mycroft’s sphere in the first place.  There would be a lot of those discussions, if he had his way, because it was astonishing how much more was in Mycroft’s brain about the book than actually made it to the page.  Countless small details that enriched the bigger picture, but didn’t change one critical thing about the story itself.  Then there were the parts that _had_ made it to the page, besides Bell’s sexuality, that were deleted later because Mycroft decided they were unnecessary, slowed down the story too much or began to take it in a direction he didn’t like.  Greg had believed writing to be a hard but, ultimately, straightforward process.  Apparently, like acting, the reality was leagues away from the fantasy.

      “More food?  You’re going to be too fat to play Bell, young man.”

The fact that both Greg and Mycroft had appeared in the kitchen holding out the plates that had formerly held a hefty piece of cake they’d deemed essential a few hours after finishing their popcorn feast, accompanied by picture-perfect pitiful Oliver Twist eyes, was a nod to theatrics that Mrs. Hudson secretly applauded.

      “A jacket will hide the paunch.  Just a spot of breakfast for a poor man soon to hop the train for the ages-long, punishing trip back to London?”

      “I, myself, am not participating in any form of hopping, however, Gregory’s plight is sufficient to act as the burden for two damned souls and that burden can only be alleviated by a nourishing meal.  And tea.”

      “A pair of hounds, the two of you are.  Fine!  I’ll see your bowls filled and have them on the table in half an hour.  Is that good enough or do I have to toss pieces of toast at you to hold back the stomach rumblings.”

      “Toast, please.”

      “I concur.  Toast with a succulent dollop of Tuesday jam.”

Greg narrowed his eyes, but decided that unless it was made with motor oil, there wasn’t really any way in which something described as jam could be awful, even if it was named after a day of the week.

      “Five minutes, then.  Set your plates in the sink and I’ll have toast out to you in a moment.”

Taking Mycroft’s plate, Greg made certain to place them carefully in the sink since he was somewhat certain the old-fashioned design was actually an _expensive_ old-fashioned design and he didn’t want to travel back to London with a bandaged head from a housekeeper-with-wooden-spoon injury.

      “Oh, and that brother of your is already awake and causing mischief.  Don’t expect more than an egg apiece as he’s taken a full two dozen for some ridiculous experiment or other.  I sent Charles with him to make certain he doesn’t explode something.  Again.”

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose and wondered if it was possible to simply hire a 24-hour minder for Sherlock, since the good doctor was flagrantly derelict in that position by requiring sleep and toilet breaks at regular intervals.

      “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.  However, Sherlock should be leaving today, so we have but a short window remaining for his reign of terror to produce its normal quantity of property-destroying disaster.”

Motioning for Greg to follow, the writer took a moment to rearrange the fruit in the bowl on the staff table and reposition the chairs so that each was precisely in the center of its side of the square before continuing on to the dining room where he adjusted the draperies slightly so that the sun failed to send its most glaring rays into the room.

      “Speaking of leaving, Mycroft, I expect you’re looking forward to seeing the back of me so you can get some rest.”

Greg pulled out a chair and waited for Mycroft’s tiny nod before sitting so that no seating arrangement rules were broken.

      “To be truthful, I _am_ a touch fatigued, but it is not an entirely new sensation.  When I have a productive line of thought during a writing session, I tend to follow it to its end, which might see me remaining awake until nearly noon.”

      “Noon!  Oh my… that’s dedication.”

      “Yes, and most necessary if the chapter on which I am working is to carry the full flavor of the message I intend it to carry.”

      “Artists suffer for their art.”

      “It is true, but not something I sorely regret.”

Smiling at how very serious was his new friend, who had missed the initial bit of teasing, Greg found himself already starting to miss having the opportunity to chat with Mycroft about whatever happened to enter their minds.  It was hard to find someone you could talk to without there having to be a specific purpose for the conversation.

      “Can I give you permission to sleep in a little today as a reward for making a lot of progress on the film project?”

      “Alas, though I would welcome that, I…”

      “Yeah?”

      “I feel inspired.  I feel that my newest book would benefit greatly from my letting this burst of inspiration guide my hand while it continues to shine brightest.”

      “Hurray!  That’s something to celebrate!  And, here’s Mrs. Hudson with our celebratory toast and jam.”

The thought of tossing a piece of toast directly on the table in front of Greg was tempting the housekeeper mightily, but the temptation paled in comparison to the dread of how quickly her employer would dissolve seeing crumbs launch like tiny insects over the pristine table covering.

      “And there’s a proper English breakfast on its way once you get this down your throats.  I’ll pack away a little something for you, too, Mr. Actor, because I know the food on the train is dreadful.  Now, toast and tea while they’re both hot because I won’t bring fresh if you let this get sad and cold.”

Quickly setting down the tray and distributing the starter course for breakfast at it’s very uncharacteristic time for the house, Mrs. Hudson made note of how happy her Mr. Holmes looked this morning.  It was a look he wore surprisingly well.  However, he also wore annoyed and pouty well, so now was as good a time as any for this bit of news.

      “Oh, and Mr. Holmes, Anthea said to phone her tomorrow about that radio interview you said you’d cut out your tongue before you’d do.  She said she found a surgeon who has the correct glue to stick it back in your mouth, so your argument’s been thwarted.”

      “Damnation!”

Mycroft’s thunderous pout was so perfectly toddler-like that Greg did a mental run-through for forgotten sweets or a quid or two in his pockets to make him smile again.

      “That sulk doesn’t work on me and you know it, Mr. Holmes.  Besides, it’s your fault you told her that the only interview you’d ever give would be one where you didn’t actually have to leave your house, appear in person or interact with any other humans in any possible way.  You left her just enough room to have you phone in to one of those radio programs.  Besides it’s one of those pre-recorded sort and she’ll have the questions first, so you can have everything scripted and ready to go and it’ll be like reading a speech, except the other fellow will have his bit to toss in so you don’t sound like you’re talking in random bits of nonsense.  Besides, there’ll be a pitch for donations for your literacy project that the one over there sold his body to, so you’ll be doing your good deed for the month.”

Mycroft’s rude noise was as prim and proper as was humanly possible, but suffused with the appropriate level of irritation and castigation to still be called rude.

      “Got spit on your lip.”

While Mycroft frantically reached for his napkin, Greg wagged a finger at the smug Mrs. Hudson who made her own rude noise as she sashayed out of the dining room to check on the feature presentation of their breakfast performance.

      “Plagued!  I am plagued by the vexatious females in my life!”

How Mycroft could perfectly fold a used napkin and have it look unused was obviously a skill known only to a select and secret sect of individuals who had not seen fit to pass along their arcane knowledge to marquee-dominating film stars named Greg Lestrade.

      “I suppose it’s part of their wage for keeping the even-more vexatious bastards away from you so you can go about your business 99.9% of the time.”

      “Ugh… there are days I would gladly trade banknotes for botheration, however, you do have a point.”

      “Interviews _are_ a misery sometimes, that much I’ll admit.  I’ve done more than I can count and still roll my eyes when Anderson tells me I’ve got another on my plate.  This one sounds fairly benign; I’ve had a few like that when I’ve been on location and BBC Radio decides they have a spot to fill.  You get the questions they’re going to ask because it’s assumed you’ll be short of time and can’t have a general ramble that they’ll edit into something coherent.”

      “At times that is the case.  I _have_ participated in these before, but too often for my liking, have been…”

      “Blindsided?”

      “Verily.  They did _not_ remain on the agreed-upon topics and tried…”

      “Yeah?”

      “They wanted details of my newest book!  They wanted me to divulge characters, plot… it was intolerable!”

      “Oh, got nosy, did they?  Did you tell them where to shove their nosiness?”

      “I discontinued the interviews.  And my solicitors gained all copies of the recordings so they could not, in any manner, broadcast their insinuations and interpretations of my statements.”

      “Turned the suits on them?  Smart… sometimes the only thing the berks pay attention to is a team of people in expensive suits presenting them with papers filled with Latin and words that might as well be Latin since you can’t make heads nor tails of them due to their fanciness.  I’ve had to do that a time or two for various things or, rather, Anderson’s had to do that since he deals with the various legal beagles rather than me.”

      “Yes, I do not see you as someone with the appropriate temperament and skills to successfully direct a firm of solicitors towards your intended outcomes.”

      “I… was that a compliment or an insult?”

      “Neither.  Simply a statement of fact.”

Which Greg had to admit was a _correct_ statement of fact, since he was balls at working with solicitors, having tried periodically and gaining himself nothing but an aching head and large bill for the time spent acquiring said headache.

      “Ok.  In any case, I’m sure Anthea will impress upon whoever is interviewing you that you’ll let loose the dogs of war if they try anything sneaky.  At least you don’t have to have an entire telly crew dogging your heels for one of those Who the Fuck are You shows.  I’ve got that on the horizon and… in truth, I may be a _tad_ excited because they always find interesting things about your ancestors, but it’s still a bother.”

      “Oh, I know the sort of program to which you are referring.  I rarely recognize the individual they are profiling, but the historical and genealogical information is usually very interesting.  They have approached me, however, I have given my opinion on the matter in exceedingly concise terms.”

      “Was it two terms that rhymed with duck shoe?”

      “No.  Whatever would that accomplish?”

      “Depends on your inflection, I suppose.  But, I think it… oh.  That looks dire.”

Mycroft followed Greg’s eyes which were staring out of the one window that was fully unobstructed by heavy drapes to see Sherlock, bound and gagged, being led by a rope by a surprisingly nonchalant-appearing chauffer, despite the egg and not-egg dripping from Charles’s hair.

      “Sherlock _has_ been a mischief today.  And it is a day scarcely started.”

      “Looks like your man has it sorted, though.”

      “Charles is very well-provided with useful skills and in a diversity of areas of expertise.”

      “I heard he’s been with you longer than any other of your staff.”

      “That he has.  Charles has been in my employ from not long after the publication of my second novel.”

      “Decided you needed a chauffer to mix with the posh crowd?”

      “Was that a joke?”

      “Yes.  Well spotted.”

      “Excellent.  In any case, I had not particularly considered a driver, however… circumstances demonstrated how convenient such a thing might be.”

      “You rode about in a chauffeured car and decided it was the smart way to travel?”

      “In a sense, though it was Charles driving the car and for the purpose of delivering me to hospital.”

      “What!  Christ, Mycroft, what happened?”

      “Hmmm?  Oh, he was attempting to burgle the house next to mine and gave me somewhat of a fright when I caught him at it.  I slipped and took a small tumble that rather ferociously twisted my ankle.”

      “WHAT!”

      “Worry not, for it was only a sprain and not a break.”

      “I’m more worried about… Charles is a fucking housebreaker!”

      “ _Was_ is the more appropriate verb and he was not a common housebreaker.  Charles was a highly successful art thief.”

Greg ran through his mental files for every impression he’d ever had of Mycroft’s driver and found absolutely nothing to prepare him for this.  He was already a terrible detective and making a mockery of his dream film role!

      “I… I have no idea what to say about that except I want to say something about that and I don’t know what it is.”

      “Pardon?”

      “Tell me this story, Mycroft, and don’t omit any details or you’re not getting a single spot of jam for your toast.”

Something Greg emphasized by drawing the jam pot over towards him and creating a small jam prison around it with his hands after checking for unhappy signs that the jam pot occupied an equally-critical position on the table-setting-placement scale as the pepper or any of Mycroft’s multiple pieces of crystal drinkware.

      “What a dastardly man you are, Gregory.  If you must know…”

      “Oh, I must.”

      “… I was in the market for a new residence and rented a townhome that seemed suitable for both me and Sherlock, when he chose to be at home.  Charles had already ascertained that my neighbor had acquired a truly delightful Monet, which Charles decided to liberate and transfer to more appropriate, and lucrative, hands.  On that point, I cannot blame him in the slightest as my neighbor was a vulgarian in every sense of the word and the thought of a lovely work of art in that man’s hands is positively nauseating.  Anyway, the plan was to use the balcony of my bedroom to access a drainpipe, then a small ledge that led to the room where the Money hung.  What Charles had not realized was that the house, which had been vacant, now had a resident, though one without, at present, furnishings so the house still appeared uninhabited.  It was quite the shock for us both when I started downstairs to prepare a cup of tea and he was starting upstairs to begin his work.”

      “Charles is an art thief.  That… I can’t say it doesn’t fit for this particular household, but I certainly never would have suspected that.”

      “Nor did anyone else, for he has not a single arrest, let alone conviction, to his name.  And he _was_ terribly remorseful when I had my fall.  It took him scarcely three seconds to decide against his plan and tend to me instead.  Fortunately, my boorish neighbor also had a car that was available to… borrow… and I was most impressed with the skill Charles demonstrated both in the borrowing and the driving of it to hospital.  I doubt any ambulance could have made the trip so quickly!  As I detest public transportation and find cabs a scandalous waste of funds, I offered Charles an honest way to earn a wage by acting as my driver.  And finder of a suitable vehicle to drive that would fit my needs.”

      “I’m surprised he accepted.  There’s loads of money to be had in art thievery, or so it seems from the films and such.”

      “True, but staying current with the technology of alarm and monitoring systems, increased scrutiny of the movement of goods to certain hands, the influx of new faces into the profession that were not the trusted faces of old… he felt it was an opportune time for a shift in careers.  And, I must say, he has not seemed to regret his decision, nor have I.  The details and insights into the art world and, of course, it’s criminal shadow, have been tremendously helpful in the writing of many of my books.”

Mycroft sipped his tea and Greg simply shook his head in wonder that for all Mycroft’s various adherences to the strict rules of this or that, the man merrily employed an art thief as his driver and Sherlock-wrangler.  Would the complexities and unexpecteds never end?  He dearly hoped not.

      “Has he also helped you choose the various pieces I see in this house or is that all you?”

      “Oh, it is a veritable group effort.  I have some knowledge of art, but Charles is certainly better equipped to spot established artists or predict who would be worth my investment for the future.  He is also very keen at spotting forgeries, which is a most laudable benefit.  Many of the pieces you see in the house, however, were here from the previous owner and it is a fierce negotiation whenever changes are made to the structure or placement of the more prominent pieces, be they of art or furniture.”

      “Negotiation?”

      “Yes.”

      “With who?”

      “The former owner.”

      “How would they know what you did or didn’t do?”

      “Because Mrs. Hudson still resides here, and she is very quick to notice any changes during her daily duties.”

      “WHAT!”

      “Dear me, Gregory, you are most prone to shouting this morning.”

      “Mrs. Hudson… Mrs. Hudson owned this house?”

      “It has been in her family for some time, though they were not the original owners.  When her brother passed away rather suddenly, though not particularly surprisingly, given the man’s excessive love of both food and drink, and his abhorrence of doing much besides watching the telly, Mrs. Hudson found herself with a house and lands that her husband certainly did not appreciate for its lack of proximity to London or his mistress who could also be found in the city.”

      “Did he die a sudden and surprising death, too?”

      “What an admirable guess!”

Nothing else would have fit this fairy tale.

      “So, Mrs. Hudson decided to sell, rather than live out here alone.”

      “Yes, though the sale price was a pittance to her accounts once the various debts her husband had accumulated were satisfied.  It was most fortunate, for us both, that she had a fondness for this restful area and was willing to stay on to see the house kept in tip-top shape.”

      “And make certain you didn’t do anything rotten to her family house.”

      “That, also.”

Though, to his credit, Mycroft had been the best possible person the newly-arrived Mrs. Hudson could have sold this house to, in her opinion.  She’d always found it an odd bit of fantasy and that was as good a description of Mr. Holmes as it was the house, so the two were a perfect match.

      “He’s tried, though!  Don’t think for a moment this one hasn’t tried.  Had to stop the daft thing doing all sorts of nonsense no sensible person would dream of in a million years.  Of course, that’s mostly because those things would have made my job harder and bugger that, I work too hard as it is.  I can’t say I have much loyalty to the house as I never lived here very long in my lifetime, but I’ll be dragged to hell before I let anyone take up the floors just because they don’t like the particular tone that’s struck by Ms. Anthea’s heels when she walks across them.”

      “That was not the only reason!”

      “It was!  You just tried to pretend you wanted something lighter in color because I didn’t know you quite well enough then to know you were lying horribly like an evil little bugger whose broken a window and tries to blame it on pixies or something.”

      “Pixies have never been accused of window breaking.”

      “And you’ve never wanted to make anything lighter in color in all your born days.  Now, eat your breakfast while I watch your brother doesn’t make an escape.  Charles will be in the shower for longer than usual, I suspect, what with egg and something blue in his hair.”

      “Blue?”

      “I’m not taking your brother’s gag off to find out what it is, so it’ll be a happy mystery for now.  Charles will be ready to take you into the village for your train, though, Mr. Lestrade.  And I hate to break the news to you, but I heard Doctor Watson say which train he was hoping to take and it’s the one you wanted, too, so prepare for Sherlock’s looniness which always erupts when he’s confined in a space with other human beings.  I’d say see if you could ride atop the bloody thing, but I think that might be a touch illegal and that wouldn’t be the sort of publicity you’d want.  On second thought, though, you riding atop a train might be exactly the sort of silly publicity you’d want, so make your own decision.  It’s none of my business, anyway.”

Though the look on Mrs. Hudson’s face clearly said that any train-top riding had to be documented on video and copies delivered to her at the earliest possible opportunity.

      “Oh dear, Gregory… I do not envy you your plight.”

      “Any helicopters I can charter?  Farmer with a horse and vegetable cart?”

      “I believe the vehicle you rented previously is available.”

      “Nope!  Not in a million years.  You’ve got cars, you villain.  Give me one.”

      “No.”

      “Yes or I tell the wardrobe department that Diogenes Bell wears argyle socks, a shiny plastic belt with an enormous buckle, and a beret.”

      “You would not dare!”

      “I do dare!  Wait until I get started on the shoes.  A pair of those trainers the kids wear with lights that flash when they take a step or glitter on the laces.”

      “That… that is positively uncivil!”

      “Shoes can’t be civil, so I declare piffle on you.”

      “That… I have no idea how to respond to being piffled.”

      “Then I win!”

      “You most certainly do not!  My lack of response does not equate to a surrender.”

Screwing up his face into a ferocious mask of determination, Mycroft reached over and pulled Greg’s breakfast plate over to create his own prison, this time requiring whole arms, to keep his prisoner safely contained.

      “That… oh, the gauntlet has been thrown down, Mycroft Holmes.”

      “I have no fear of your flaccid threats, Gregory Lestrade.”

      “My threats aren’t flaccid.  They’re diamond-hard and ready for action.”

      “That shall not last given your lack of an energizing breakfast.”

      “I’ve got jam!  I’ll eat the whole container and that’ll keep me full of sugary calories to fuel the hardness _and_ the action.”

      “Untrue!  Or, true only for a brief time as the simple sugars in the jam are quickly metabolized and shall leave you depleted and lethargic in a post-sugar downturn what will ensure my victory.”

      “Shit!  You’re right.  Forgot about the sugar coma.  Ummmm… the rug!  I’ll munch the rug and all its fibery goodness will slow the sugar rush.”

      “You will not defile my exquisite and irreplaceable Oriental rug with your teeth, Gregory Lestrade.”

Greg’s chomping sounds earned him a quick flick on his ear by Mrs. Hudson, who flicked Mycroft’s ear, too, though with the so-far unused jam spoon and used his quick check that he still had two ears attached to his skull to steal back Greg’s breakfast and return it to him, as well as return the jam pot to its proper position on the table.

      “If I have to put you two at different tables, don’t think I won’t.  Now, you, Actor Boy, are going to leave Mr. Holmes’s nice cars alone and you, Writer Boy, are going to have a chat with your brother about the status of his allowance if he causes trouble on the trip home.  And, if I have to step in again to see you two sorted, you can forget entirely about any more popcorn for your film nights.”

The look of horror on both men’s faces was precisely what Mrs. Hudson wanted to see and it was with her own victory in her pocket that she left the vanquished alone to lick their wounds and finish their meal.

      “Mrs. Hudson doesn’t play about, does she?”

      “Not in the slightest.  It is one of her most defining attributes.”

      “Want to hide her pinny after she’s done with breakfast?”

      “Gregory!”

      “Is that a no?”

      “If you provide the distraction, I shall perpetrate the abduction.”

      “We’re a good team, Mycroft.”

      “Unquestionably.”

__________

      “March, you criminal.”

John was not surprised to wake a little later than expected, since Sherlock wasn’t in bed with him, and he was even less surprised that Sherlock had used the late morning to perpetrate his standard level of chaos on his brother’s home.  The bastard was nothing if not predictable, which did make it easier, though, for the staff to have a weather eye out for his antics and a rope on hand when he needed to be lassoed like a stray cow on one of those American ranches.

      “I am not a criminal!  It is highly arguable that crafting explosives from household products is exempt from ridiculous governmental regulations, especially when the experiment is conducted on private property and all aspects of the research are documented according to accepted scientific protocol.”

      “If Charles doesn’t make you ride in the boot, I’ll be shocked.”

      “The hair loss is only temporary.”

      “The man has to keep his hat on if he doesn’t want that bald spot to sunburn!”

      “Sunscreen is freely available even in this accursed corner of the country.”

With a hearty shove to start his partner moving forward, John made mental note that this was, by far, one of the most successful visits they’d ever enjoyed!  Hopefully, they’d return sooner than later… especially if the fellow taking his own turn to bid farewell to their host was going to present.

      “Well, Mycroft, that’s two of my traveling party settled.  Now, I suppose it’s my turn.  It’s been a wonderful visit.  I really had a marvelous time.”

Feeling a little ashamed that he carefully watched Greg’s face for any sign he was hiding the actual truth, Mycroft salved his conscience with the knowledge that not only did his new friend appear to be wholly honest, but was smiling somewhat wistfully, as if he was sorrowful their time together had to come to an end.

      “As did I.  I trust I shall hear from you soon concerning the matters we discussed during our recent conversations.”

      “Uh… no.”

      “Pardon?”

      “No, you won’t be hearing from me.”

      “I… Gregory, did I somehow give offense?”

      “No, you just never gave me your telephone number.”

      “Good heavens, you are correct.  I apologize, Gregory, that was terribly remiss of me.”

Quickly pulling out his notebook, Mycroft jotted down his number and handed it to Greg, who correctly sensed this was something Mycroft very rarely bestowed on anyone.

      “Great!  Now, I can phone you to keep you updated with things.  I know Anthea will do that, but it’s good to get the story from another source or perspective sometimes.”

      “And, of course… not that it is a vital thing, you see, but do not… do not feel you are prohibited from ringing me if… well, one does not need a matter of business to discuss for one to have a discussion, does one?”

Mycroft’s smile was so shyly hopeful that Greg knew he’d find a phone in Antarctica if he had to so Mycroft wasn’t disappointed in how long it had been since they’d spoken.

      “One certainly does not!  I’ll likely be kissing my pillow hello fairly early tonight, but I’ll phone tomorrow to let you know if Anderson had any news waiting for me at home.”

      “Most efficient and most appreciated.  Have a safe journey, Gregory.  I… I hope we shall visit again, soon.”

Greg stood waiting a moment while Mycroft visibly wrestled with himself about offering his hand to shake and it was the sheer pain of the struggle on Mycroft’s face that prompted Greg to extend his little finger and waggle it at the writer.

      “Pinkie promise we’ll do this again soon?”

Now the struggle was replaced by confusion, so Greg wiggled it again and reached out a little closer to Mycroft, which finally brought some understanding to his friend’s face.

      “Ah, I understand.  Yes, I believe that is something on which you have my full agreement.”

Slowly extending and hooking his own little finger with Greg’s, Mycroft gave the combined unit a small shake and smiled widely at his success.

      “We have an accord, Gregory.”

      “That we do.  Alright, it looks like my ride is waiting, so… take care of yourself, Mycroft.  I’ll phone soon.”

Finding it the most adorable thing in the universe that Mycroft unlatched their fingers to wave goodbye, Greg waved back and dashed to the car before he started laughing at their silliness and finding some reason or other to stay another day or two.  With a final wave as the car drove away, Greg settled back on the comfortable seat of the vehicle that had brought him there yesterday and sighed contentedly.

      “Your breath is foul, Lestrade.”

Yes, it was going to be a long trip back to London, but he’d taken a sip of what Mrs. Hudson had put in the small travel bottle of Coke in his snacks pack and it certainly had an extra kick that won his immense approval.  One insulated bottle with cold rum and coke was the perfect thing to enjoy on the way to London where even his VIP seating wouldn’t be enough to protect him from Sherlock on a rampage.  It _would_ make riding atop the train a great deal more plausible, though, which was likely Mrs. Hudson’s fiendish plan from the onset.  She was truly a master at manipulating situations to her benefit and could easily hold her own in the vicious and depraved depths of Hollywood.  So could Molly, for that matter.  And Charles could finance their relocation with a quick theft of something pricey and easy to move.

This was shaping up into its own buddy film sort of thing!  He should get Anderson to pitch it to a studio.  These good looks wouldn’t last forever and segueing into another creative area wouldn’t be a bad idea.  Of course, knowing the unholy trio, they’d want a cut of the profits and a hefty one, at that.  As would everyone in the village because who could leave those loonies out of the mix.  He might end up paying out more in profits than he actually earned!  Well, that was a good idea straight into the toilet.  Luckily, he had others.  He just needed to find someone to invest with him in his idea for an argyle sock shop that also sells gaudy belts and very shiny shoes…

__________

Sherlock and John stowed away with Sherlock warned within an inch of his life that shenanigans would not be tolerated, so there was probably ten or fifteen minutes of peace he could count on, his own seat happily taken with a few small sips of ‘Coke’ taken to quench his thirst and, soon, a nice nap so he had energy to actually make it to his own house once the train arrived in London.  So far, everything was going to plan.

      “You.”

Sherlock… not even five minutes of peace.  Well, the bastard wasn’t getting any of his special travel beverage and that was his final word on the subject.

      “Uh, Sherlock… you don’t have a first-class seat.”

      “I do now.  Behold!  I am currently sitting.”

      “In a seat you didn’t pay for!”

      “True, but I accessed the ticketing records while you were disgracing yourself by giving the stationmaster’s wife your autograph, so they have their accurate passenger manifest, your ego is inflated and I have my seat.  Everyone is happy.  Especially me.  John is also content, for no reason I can immediately fathom.  I informed him that I would be joining you in first class and he began to smile in a very… contented fashion.  He is difficult to understand, at times.”

      “I’m sure he misses you, so trot back and keep your partner company.”

      “No.”

      “Will you, at least, keep quiet and read or something so I can sleep.  I didn’t get a wink all night and I could use a few hours of rest.”

      “No.”

      “Can I pay you to go and sit with John?”

      “No.”

      “Why not?”

      “I can pickpocket you at any time and take what funds I desire.”

      “Lovely.  I’m surprised you haven’t been arrested yet.  You actually are a criminal, all things considered.”

      “A matter of opinion.  Now, we have important matters to discuss.”

      “My nap?”

      “My brother.”

      “His nap?”

      “His film.”

      “You worried it’ll be a disaster?”

      “No…”

Sherlock’s face took on something other than the haughty smirk he’d been wearing, and Greg turned his attention up a few notches for whatever conversation was to come.

      “Then what?”

      “That it shall succeed.”

      “That makes no sense.”

      “It does if you consider Mycroft.  Who is Mycroft, for better or worse.”

      “We’re back to the no sense making.”

      “We are concerned…”

      “Who’s we?”

      “Myself and… others.”

That was a nice variation on Sherlock’s ‘reasons’ theme, so Greg decided to reward that cleverness by not pointing out the magnitude of the lie.

      “Got it.  Do continue.”

      “We are concerned that the publicity and such involved with a film might… Mycroft can scarcely manage the life he has now, let alone one where he is in a veritable fishbowl with all of humanity looking in.”

That was genuine worry in Sherlock’s voice and it was good to know that, now and then, the bratty baby brother mask could slip to reveal the actual person, who _had_ a heart, that hid behind it.

      “That’s… ok, that’s a proper concern, but not one that necessarily applies here.  Loads of books are made into films and you scarcely see more than an interview or two with the author of those books.  Even the more publicized ones like Stephen King or J.K. Rowling aren’t bothered overmuch by the media hounds, it’s the stars of the film that take the brunt of it.  I’ll have to do my usual dog-and-pony show, but I’ll be surprised if Mycroft does more, himself, than have a chat with some reporter from a magazine. Maybe one of the publications for mystery lovers or something might want a scoop and I may go so far as to expect a small radio bit, but I have little doubt Anthea will keep the telly people away and the paparazzi will have zero interest in coming out here for a writer.  To be honest, most of the public don’t _care_ about writers and those who do aren’t interested in them for gossip or scandal.  It’ll be alright, Sherlock.”

      “Can you guarantee that?”

      “No, because if humans are involved, guaranteeing anything is idiotic, but I’d be shocked if Mycroft receives anything more than a bit of cursory interest.  I can talk to Anthea, if you like, and get her impressions.  I’ll ask my agent, too, but I don’t think I’ll hear a different story.  Honestly, I suspect he’d see more interest from the literary crowd and that would be… I can’t see any of that lot being very intrusive or bothersome.  He might want to do a little extra, though, to promote his new book or draw attention to his literacy project, but I doubt the publishing-news reporters are going to be banging on his door, trying to shove a camera or microphone in his face.  Molly would have them running for their lives, in any case.”

      “There _is_ some merit to that last statement.  Very well, I suppose I have no choice but to accept your assurances, however…”

      “However, it’s hard to imagine someone like your brother getting the shite you see celebrities getting from the entertainment press.  And the regular press, for that matter.”

      “The insults the vultures perpetrate is a disgrace to the term civilization.”

      “I won’t argue, Sherlock.  Not one bit.  I’ve lived it for a long time and it can be horrible the shit they sling, especially when it’s all made up in their heads to sell their story to some filthy gossip rag.  But, it’s part of the job, no different that dealing with nasty kids and their snooty parents goes with the job of teaching.  Wish it were otherwise, but it isn’t.  I’ll look out for him, as best I can, though.  Does that help?”

      “No, for you are as useless as a tea kettle to a terrier.”

      “Little fellows don’t like tea?  Well, can’t say they need the caffeine what with their usual level of energy.  Maybe something herbal and soothing, though, would be the thing for them.”

      “As I said, useless.”

      “You’re probably right.  Does that mean I can nod off for a little nap, now, since I can’t possibly be of any use to you?”

      “No.”

      “Marvelous.”

      “I am curious as to why you wish to spend time with Mycroft discussing the film.  Somehow, I doubt that is the standard method for actors to research the parts they play.”

Little brother curious that big brother has a new friend?  You could just ask, Sherlock, but we’ll continue to play your roundabout game and what you make of it all… is likely far more than _I_ ever could and may even be somewhat on the right track, all things considered.

      “Not necessarily.  You gain what information you can in whatever manner you can.  Some live the role, for instance.  You’re going to play a firefighter, so you arrange to do the job for awhile or, at least, as much of it as they’ll allow you to do.  Other actors read everything they can, say if they’re portraying a historical figure.  Talk to anyone still alive who knew them or knew someone, like a parent or grandparent, who knew them.  Everyone’s got their own technique to prepare.  Besides, the first thing I had to do was convince your brother to let me play Bell at all!  That wasn’t easy, let me tell you plainly, and  it wouldn’t have happened, I wager, if I hadn’t pled my case in person.”

      “Hmmm… that much I understand.  Mycroft is inordinately protective of his bumbling detective.”

      “I’d say Diogenes Bell is the polar opposite of the cliched bumbling detective.”

      “Since you are useless, your opinion carries little weight.”

      “I’ve read the books, Sherlock, and talked to your brother about the character, so my opinion carries some weight, at least for shaping how I’ll play the man on screen.  And, I’ll do more of both of those things before I actually get the script and will continue on with that strategy until we start filming.  Plus, your brother’s opinion is something you can’t even begin to say is useless, now can you, since he created the character in the first place.”

      “I _can_ say Mycroft’s opinion is useless, because he has never done a day of detective work in his life.”

      “I doubt many of the authors of mystery books have ever done a day of detective work in their lives.”

      “Hence the vast uselessness of their breed.”

      “Fine, how about you and I chat about being a detective, then?  You can tell me what’s what about the job and I can add that to my knowledge base for when I start to step into Bell’s shoes and put him on film.”

      “That is ridic… wait.  That is not a completely idiotic suggestion.”

      “Thank you.”

      “I will assume, naturally, it was a fortuitous accident and singular aberration, but I suppose even a broken clock is correct twice a day.”

      “Unless it’s a novelty 24-hour clock, then it’s only right once a day.”

      “Shut it, Lestrade.  I am contemplating your proposal.”

      “Can I nap while you contemplate?”

      “No.”

      “Fabulous.”

      “Yes… yes, I believe I can agree to your offer of collaboration.  We shall now discuss my fee.”

      “Wrong.”

      “Right.  You are utilizing my specialized skills to prepare for a role and that qualifies as a consultation.  Do you prefer to be billed separately for each consult or is a monthly plan more amenable to whatever bean counter you employ to manage your funds?”

      “I am not paying you for a friendly chat.”

      “We are not friends, so your refusal is based on a fallacy and, therefore, insupportable.”

      “I’m your brother’s friend, so the friend exemption passes, by proxy, to you.”

      “Wrong.  Let us begin.  You should be taking notes.”

      “No paper.”

      “That you have survived to your elder years is dumbfounding.”

      “Does that give me a senior savings for your consultation fee?”

      “I do not award failure to die with discounted rates.”

      “It was worth a try.”

      “Actually, it was not, but I shall rent you my notebook and a pen so we may commence.”

      “How about you just write down the important points while I nap?”

      “The act of writing further promotes internalization of new material, so you will write and I will tell you what to write.”

Greg sighed loudly and held out his hand to take the notebook and pen Sherlock pulled from his coat, which looked very much like the notebook and pen that Mycroft kept in his own jacket, proving that genetics worked in mysterious ways.

      “Ok, I’m ready.”

      “You are already drawing a… is that a dog?”

      “It’s you!”

      “You are hereby prohibited from drawing.”

      “Nope.  I doodle.  I doodle when we’re doing script read-thoughs, I doodle when I’m waiting for something, I doodle when some poncy berk is using his mouth to pull cash out of my wallet…”

      “I would no more put my mouth in your trouser pocket than I would kiss a plague-infested rat!”

      “You want me to draw you as a rat, you say?  Ok, the dog version was cuter, but I’m flexible.  Now, while I’m ratting you up on paper, go on with your lecture.  I’ll speak up if I have questions.”

      “You are a deplorable pupil, Lestrade.”

      “Yeah, I’ve heard that before.  Few tears were shed when I left school early.”

      “Oh, not even from the art instructor?”

      “She tossed me out after I used my clay to make a life-size sculpture of my cock.”

      “I knew schools suffered financial crises, but to only allow a teaspoon of clay per student is rather tragic.”

      “Now drawing my cock, which will feature eyes and hair that suspiciously looks like yours.”

      “You will not allow John to see that.”

      “I certainly wi… no, you’re right.  He’ll steal it and have it online for sale in a heartbeat and that’s not a legacy I want to leave behind when I die.  It’ll be our own special, private Shercock and I promise to keep it safe from any eyes except mine.”

      “That… that is both wildly unsatisfactory and acceptable simultaneously.”

      “Is that possible?”

      “Apparently so.  Though I would have expected some pan-dimensional vortex to open in the event something like this occurred.”

      “I don’t see one.”

      “Neither do I.  Very well, moving on to Lesson Number One, which shall focus on the proper screen credit for consulting detectives who make invaluable contributions to a film.”

      “Nope.”

      “Continue with your amateur erotic etchings, Lestrade, and I shall take charge of the important details of our association.  Perhaps I should hire an agent of my own.”

      “Good luck with that.”

      “Thank you.  I will phone the lummox you use and interview him for the position.”

      “Nope… wait, hold on a moment.  Sure, you do that.  I’ll make certain to give you his number.”

Anderson deserved it, and this would be the definitive lethal blow for their ongoing prank war.

      “I am happy to see you finally recognize my importance for this project.”

Was it possible that baby brother was feeling a bit left out of big brother’s new success?  Well, that was the most human thing possible and this entire surreal turn of conversation began to make a touch more sense.

      “Should I write that down?”

      “Yes.”

      “Got it.  Now, I believe we were discussing what real detectives do?”

      “No, we were discussing my screen credit, but I suppose that can wait until after I engage proper representation.”

      “That’s probably smart.”

      “Of course it is.  I am a genius.”

      “Should I also write that down?”

      “Yes.  And place a star beside it so you do not forget.” 


	19. Chapter 19

      “Is it always like this, Greg?”

      “No, John.  Usually it’s worse.”

John looked at the crowd waiting for Greg to leave the train and felt a strangely conflicted sense of envy and thankfulness that he didn’t have to go through life wading through throngs of fans just to run out for a newspaper.

      “How’d they know you’d be here?”

      “Who knows?  Train employee tweets they’ve seen me, someone at the studio mentions I’ll need a car at a certain time at a certain place and someone overhears… I’m astonished by how quickly information spreads and, frankly, that anyone would care in the first place.”

      “They do seem to care.  A lot.”

If the signs and screaming of Greg’s name was any indication.

      “Yeah, they do.  And I adore them for it, truthfully.  It’s just…”

      “Hard?”

      “Sometimes.  Like now, when I’m two minutes away from having sleep-deprived hallucinations and would murder a nun to be in my bed right now.  But, instead, I have to put a smile on my face, hope I don’t look too grubby or smell too awful and show my appreciation for them being here to say hello.”

      “Don’t you have… security or something to move you through a crowd like that?”

      “On certain occasions.  Major appearances, awards shows or premieres.  Mostly, though, it’s just me.  Or, to be fair, me and my agent.  He does a good job of balancing getting me to or from a car or building with spending time with the fans so they don’t feel ignored.”

      “And he’s not here.”

      “Nope.  He’s in meetings all day and told me to fuck myself when I said he was a piss-poor agent since he hadn’t yet created a clone of himself so I never had to be neglected _because_ of his stupid meetings.”

      “Bastard.”

      “His dad says so, but they look exactly alike so I think it’s just wishful thinking.  So, guess it’s all on me today, then.”

John looked out once more and back at Greg who was taking a deep breath, then thought about his own partner who had fled the scene like his arse was on fire…

      “Well, I suppose… I _did_ do my time in the Army.”

A fact that quickly flicked on a light switch in Greg’s marginally-conscious brain.

      “True.  That you did.  Fancy playing security detail for a superstar?”

      “I do fancy.  I fancy it with an enormous degree of fanciness.”

      “Alright, then.  There’ll likely be a big sedan with the driver standing and waiting, so when you see them, start going in that direction.  My guess is that since Sherlock rocketed out of here as soon as we arrived, he’s already sitting inside the car and berating the driver for not taking him home and coming back for me later, while stealing whatever he can from the amenities they tuck in as a perk.”

      “That sounds about right.  Ok, anything specific I should know beyond that?”

      “I stop for the little buggers.”

      “Stop for kids.  Got it.”

      “And I don’t accept semen samples as gifts.”

      “What?”

      “If it happens, you’ll know.”

      “If it happens, I’ll vomit.”

      “That’s fair.”

__________

      “That was the highlight of my year.  Maybe my decade.”

      “You are a sycophantic weasel, John Watson.”

      “A sycophantic weasel that got to pose menacingly while Greg signed autographs and smiled for photographs and do that bit where you see the security fellows move their charge through the crowd, looking for snipers all the while.”

And nothing Sherlock said was going to diminish the sheer fun of pretending, at least for awhile, that he was part of the film scene, hobnobbing with the rich and famous, even if was only as a bodyguard.  Though, a bodyguard, apparently, got their own fair share of ‘well, look at you’ glances from fans who seemed they might, if they got the right glance back, enjoy a drink and a shag with someone who was, at least, on the hobnobbing rung of the entertainment ladder.

      “It was an amazing job, John.  You even pretended to get info from one of those near-invisible ear things to move us along.  That was inspired.”

      “Thanks, Greg.  I take my roles seriously, even if they’re only supporting ones.  One little kid asked if I had a gun.  I said I didn’t need it since I was a martial arts master.  She was _very_ impressed, although I actually think she could have taken me in a fight.  That was the one dressed like your character from _Live Today Die Tomorrow_.  Even had your scowl down perfectly.”

      “Wasn’t she incredible!  Said she wouldn’t give a toss about stolen government secrets, but she’d go berserker on anyone who stole her dog and I agreed that was a lot more important that some dumb government stuff.”

And it hadn’t slipped John’s notice that the little girl lit up like the sun when Greg was talking to her, not like he was talking to a child, but asking her real questions about how she made her cosplay outfit and what she liked about that film, and its sequel, as well as the things she liked besides films.  And Greg lit up like the sun, too, which was probably one of the rewards that made the whole mess rewarding.

And what a mess it was!  Even though it was fun to play security man, it was work.  Nobody there seemed particularly dangerous, but some were… insistent… and he’d had to use his Captain voice a few times to settle down someone and have them wait for their turn to get a snap or autograph.  He’d always wondered if the security or studio people around a celebrity were there only for show, but they weren’t.  It took a long time to get to their car and if he hadn’t been there it would have taken longer, with Greg wilting every step of the way.  And, it would only have taken one truly troublesome person in the crowd to turn things dangerous.  Never again would he snicker at some film star with their massive entourage.  Well, maybe he might.  There weren’t too many film stars bigger than Greg Lestrade and they’d made do with one ex-Army doctor and Sherlock shouting periodically from his comfortable perch inside their car.

      “You do enjoy those little fans, don’t you?”

      “I love them!  Even when they’re too shy to talk and their mum or dad have to ask for the photo, I’ll talk to them, ask them questions they just have to nod or shake their heads to answer and… you can see it means something to them.  More than getting an autograph for a collection or something to boast about on social media.  There’s more there and, not to take away anything from my adult fans because I genuinely appreciate them, too, but… it’s different.”

      “Have you two completed your self-congratulation session or should I just continue to sit here and die of boredom?”

Greg contemplated asking the driver to stop so they might shove Sherlock out onto the pavement with a quid or two less than the necessary cab fare to get to his flat, but decided the evil git would certainly want revenge and that revenge would most certainly be both creative and cunning, neither of which would do his peace of mind a lick of good.

      “No, Sherlock, we haven’t.  You know, if you hadn’t sat in here like the queen in her coach, you could have had something to congratulate yourself about, too.”

      “Pfft.  I had more pressing matters that required my attention.”

      “What?”

Sherlock shoved his mobile in Greg’s face and snorted when Greg pushed it back a ways because he didn’t have his reading glasses on.

      “Oh.  Well… there it is.”

John turned the phone towards him and grinned widely at the press announcement of Greg being cast as Diogenes Bell in the upcoming film _The Devil’s in the Details_.

      “Didn’t expect it so soon, mate?”

      “Not really, John.  In some ways, though, I’m not surprised, given how hard it was to get me cast originally.  The studio is likely hoping to close off avenues for Mycroft to change his mind or, at least, make it a decision that would produce enough backlash that he’d change it back quickly.  I’m surprised Anderson didn’t give me a heads-up, though.  Hold on…”

Greg grabbed his own mobile and checked to see if any texts had arrived, grinning when there was one from his agent that only said ‘Call Me’ which he happily did with John leaning over to hear the conversation.

      “Anderson, you miserable cock!  Why am I learning about being cast in a film from a press release rather than you?”

      “Fuck you, too, Greg.  Why do you think I’m up to my bollocks in work today?  You know that idiotic VP we have a bet on when he’ll be sacked?”

      “Yeah?”

      “He’s been sacked and for the reason that he got drunk at a party, again, and told a reporter from _Radio Times_ about you getting the role.  They phoned the studio press office for confirmation and the studio decided not to play coy with this one.  They said, yes, the film is in pre-production and, yes, you’re signed to play Bell.  Neither of which is exactly or wholly true, but after today they will be.  Anthea is ecstatic, though, since their contract says she gets a preview of announcements like that and, since the studio suits forgot that detail, they owe her penalty money, which she’s already demanded and set a deadline to see it land in her account.”

      “She’s sharp, nobody can deny that.  So… off we go.”

      “Yep and I’ve got a meeting in about fifteen minutes to get a better sense of how fast the ‘going’ is going to be.  I suspect they’ve pushed it up on the release schedule since the initial reaction has been _very_ positive.  Don’t get used to being a layabout, you lazy berk.  It’s not going to last long.”

      “Wonderful.  I’ve got publicity to do for the film that’s about to open and, now, I’ll have to do more for the one that’s just been announced.  I hate my life.”

      “No, you love your life, except when you actually have to do anything with it besides lay on your sofa and read a book.”

      “True.  You’ll phone later?”

      “Yeah, I should have a better idea of things by day’s end, so we can start to map out how this impacts your current obligations.  The good thing, though, is that this little twist should allow me to up your fee, so that new toaster you’ve wanted should be within financial reach.”

      “Brilliant!  I’m so tired of toast that’s half-raw and half-burned.  Later, then.”

      “Get some sleep, you sound like shit.”

      “I look like it, too, so the scales are nicely balanced.”

Greg popped his mobile back in his jacket pocket and made a ‘well, there we go face at John, who was rubbing his hands together in glee.

      “I was here for that!  I was actually here when Greg Lestrade got the green light for this film.  This… stop looking at me like that, Sherlock!  Just because you only get excited when there’s a dead body at your feet doesn’t mean other people can’t get excited for things like this.  Greg… can I _now_ blog about this?”

Sherlock’s groan was very much like one Greg remembered from when one of his co-stars had their appendix burst during a scene they were filming.  Sherlock, however, did it far more dramatically.

      “If you want to get slammed by fans and press people wanting inside scoops, then fine.”

      “Ugh… I didn’t think about that.”

      “Nobody does until their social media is overflowing with notifications and there are people on their doorstep hoping to get some special bit of information to put into a story.  I’d ask, though, that you not say anything about me being at Mycroft’s house.  I’d rather it not get out right now that I’m talking to him about the part because that could push attention his way that Mycroft won’t want.  It’ll seem more expected later on but, even then, I’ll make certain the studio publicity people don’t try to play up that angle so Mycroft sees more of the spotlight than he’d want.”

      “I understand and don’t worry, I agree with it completely.  I will, however, post a few of the photos I got of you with your fans today and talk about what I think of you in the role.”

      “That sounds good.  And, don’t forget that you can interview my consultant there, who is doing his best to kill us with the power of his mind.  That does happen, now and again.  Someone interviews a dialogue coach or bloke who rented some special piece of equipment for a film and people find that interesting.  Well, some do, but it’s a nice bit of history to add to a film’s portfolio.”

      “That’s a great idea!  Sherlock, I am going to interview you for history.”

Both Greg and John shielded their faces from the expected spray from Sherlock’s rude noise and laughed at how it didn’t completely hide the gleam in Sherlock’s eyes from the idea.

      “You know, though, Greg… if you really want to know what we do on a case, how a consulting detectives goes about his job, you should come along for a case.  We don’t have a good one right now, but when we have a juicy one, I can let you know.”

      “Ooh… that’s not a bad idea.  That’s not a bad idea, at all.  And, yes, before you ask, Sherlock, studios do pay for things like that, so I could probably have Anderson negotiate a fee for you.”

      “I have not agreed to it.”

      “Ok, then I’ll give the money to John and _he_ can take me on a case.”

      “I also did not… _not_ agree to it.”

      “Well, when you’ve got your head squared on which one it is, I’ll expect your call.  Ooh, is this you?”

Given the car had come to a stop and the driver was exiting, the odds were pretty good the answer was yes.

      “Sherlock’s and my house and home.  Well, part of it is our house and home.  The other part is our landlady’s flat, but we’ve got a nice bit of space to ourselves.  Want to come up?”

Greg smiled at how hopeful John sounded, and the offer _was_ tempting, but given he’d just fall asleep on their sofa, a postponement was probably in order.

      “I doubt I’d make it to the door, actually.  I’m about to drop off right now, but another day?  And, that’s not a me being polite sort of thing, I genuinely would like to pop by sometime.”

      “Can you do that without your adoring fans following you?”

      “Surprisingly, I can.  When I’m out on a crowded street, I’ll be noticed, but this area’s not bad, it seems.  I stop in at my local more often that you might expect and it’s not a problem.  Unless people know where I’ll be ahead of time, I can often get in and out of someplace without too much bother.”

      “It’s a plan, then!  Sherlock, looks like our bags are waiting.  Greg, it was good to meet you.”

      “Good to meet you, too, John.  Talk to you later.”

      “That you will.”

Without as much reluctance as he might have predicted, John stepped out of the car and waited for Sherlock to follow, who showed _more_ reluctance to leave the vehicle than John might have expected.

      “You _will_ keep your word that Mycroft shall be shielded from the ridiculousness I witnessed today?”

      “I will, Sherlock.  And, if for some reason, not that I can imagine it, but if they get us to do an appearance together, I will make certain he’s not within fifty feet of anyone trying for a selfie.”

      “Very well, but realize that it will not be to your advantage to fail.”

Greg gave Sherlock an understanding nod and found himself harboring a different impression of the detective than he’d had when he arrived at Mycroft’s house yesterday.  The lad was much like his brother in that there was a lot more going on underneath than the surface cared to show.

With both of his new friends out of the car, Greg was able to stretch out on the seat, something he’d been dying to do and estimated how long it would be until it was his door the car was idling in front of while the driver removed a bag from the boot.  There was a good chance he’d be least partly awake when that happened.  If not, the driver would certainly give him a helpful shake to set him in motion.  Or carry him.  If this fellow worked for the studios regularly, then carrying someone who was drunk, stoned, sick or exhausted wouldn’t be a unique event in his professional career…

__________

No, that was positively puerile.  Even a rather dimwitted murderer would not leave such a staggeringly-obvious clue.  However…

      “Phone for you, Mr. Holmes.”

      “Intolerable!  You know very well, Molly, that I do not accept phone calls on Tuesdays.”

      “You do not accept phone calls on Tuesdays, unless it’s a Code Aqua.  It’s a Code Aqua.”

      “At this hour?”

      “It’s seven o’clock at night, sir, not the crack of dawn.”

      “Oh, is that all?  Dear me, I had lost sight of the flow of time with this topsy-turvy two-day… cavalcade of chaos and camaraderie.  Very well, I shall take it in…”

      “Skype.”

      “I refuse.”

      “Your refusal does not override a Code Aqua.”

      “It most certainly does.”

      “Do you really want me to pass that along?”

No.  The outcome would be… scorching.

      “I require tea.”

      “I’ll bring you tea.”

      “And lemon biscuits.”

      “Alright.”

      “Use the Derby, I think.  My constitution requires its invigorating appearance, I suspect.”

      “Royal Crown Derby on its way.  Any particular pattern?”

      “Whatever is most provocative.”

      “Yes, sir.  Tea and lemon biscuits on the way.”

Making certain to point at Mycroft’s computer, Molly left him alone to initiate the Aqua Protocol which certainly merited the lemon biscuits, in her opinion.  He’d be puckering his lips anyway and this would give him a ready excuse if questioned…

__________

      “There you are!  Oh, look at you, Mycroft.  Always so handsome.”

Mycroft’s pained whine had no effect on the smiling woman with whom he was Skyping, and who was wearing her trademark aquamarine pendant around her neck.

      “It is Tuesday, Mummy.  You know I do not take calls on Tuesday.”

      “You also don’t have big news on Tuesdays, usually, but today’s the exception, don’t you think?”

      “No.”

      “What!  Mycroft, love, why didn’t you tell us?  Your father’s practically had to hide under the desk what with all the questions he’s being asked.”

      “About what?  Good heavens, Mummy, but you are speaking utter nonsense.”

      “Have you met him yet?  Is he as handsome as he seems in his films?  He is, isn’t he?  Or even handsomer?  With that sexy voice… my heart’s all aflutter!  I can tell you right now that the library doesn’t have a single copy of your books on the shelves right now.  Not a single one since it got all over the Twitter and such.”

      “It?  Whatever are you…”

Mycroft’s brain, feeling keenly the current lack of tea and biscuits, raced to make sense of his mother’s words and, fortunately, found a thread in the words ‘he’ ‘films’ and ‘your books’ that he felt set him on the right track.

      “Are you speaking about Gregory?”

      “You called him Gregory!  So, you _have_ met him, haven’t you, because you would never do that unless you’d met him and gotten along with splendidly.  Well, I want all the details and don’t leave out a single one or I’ll be very cross and send you a garden gnome or something to show you just how much.”

      “Not another gnome, Mummy…”

      “This one will have little red trousers to go with his pointy hat and I’ll see he gets a comfy home where you usually have cornflowers planted so he’ll truly stand out nicely.”

Molly raced forward and got the biscuit plate and teacup on Mycroft’s desk before her employer broke down into the agitated flurry that seemed to be threatening.  It had to be a gnome assault, again.  Nothing offended his senses worse than a motherly gift of a garden gnome that he was obligated to accept and display, even if it later met a gruesome death via a particular vicious garden tool.

      “I despise gnomes!”

      “I know!  That’s why you’ll tell me everything about that luscious Lestrade lad.  Ooh!  And I want a signed photo.  Something sexy, too.  I’ll have your father print out something on that lovely printer they have at the library and send it to you to get it signed.  Something… oh, I have the perfect thing.  One of those love scenes he’s done, and they show him without his shirt all the way down nearly to his happy place and he’s looking lusty and gorgeous.  I’ll give your dad a timestamp from one of Mr. Gorgeous’s films and have him do that technology thing he knows how to do to print out a clear frame.  Then you can have it signed for me.  When do you think you can do that?”

Mycroft shove two biscuits into his mouth and pouted grandly, much to his mother’s delight.  Her son was such an adorable boy when he pouted.

      “While you’re chewing, Mycroft, tell me how your brother is doing.  I haven’t heard from him in two weeks and that’s more than enough time for him to have been deported or put in the stocks.”

How he was supposed to answer while chewing was something Mycroft’s genius mind couldn’t fathom, but that had never before stopped any of his mother’s requests.  Fortunately, small, delicate biscuits required little mastication.

      “Sherlock is fine, Mummy.  In fact, he and John have been here, in residence, for the past several days, departing only this morning.”

      “And neither of you thought to tell your father and me?  We could have made the trip, too!”

Precisely why that information had not been passed along in any way, shape or form.

      “It was very much an impromptu decision.”

      “Ridiculous.  You’re allergic to impromptu.”

      “One cannot be allergic to an unplanned action.”

      “One can if I say they can and I do.  It’s been ages, Mycroft dear… your father and I miss you both so much.”

      “I shall relay your agony to Sherlock and, perhaps, he might darken your doorstep at some point in the near future.  I do not believe he had any pressing matters to attend to, therefore…”

      “And you?  I have two sons, Mycroft, not one.”

      “One of those sons has a regular and rigorous work schedule and the other does not.”

      “Don’t be silly.  Nobody is too regular and rigorous to not visit their parents.  Or… thinking about it, we haven’t visited _you_ recently.  Why don’t you invite Greg Lestrade for a dinner party with the family so we can meet him?”

      “Absolutely not!”

      “Absolutely yes!  It’s a brilliant idea.  One of my finest.”

      “Gregory is a frightfully busy man and he has no time for a dinner party.  Just today he was telling me about…”

      “Telling you!  Was it on the phone?  In person?  Do you do the computer thing with him, too, like us?  Did he sound lusty and sexy?  I wager he did…”

Mycroft loved his mother dearly.  He almost felt… normal… when he was talking to her because their conversations played right along the lines of those he saw on the television where the long-suffering son had a meddlesome and rather dotty mother.  Truly, there was almost no difference whatsoever besides he had lemon biscuits and tea to help soothe his crippling death.

      “Mummy…”

      “Did he grin?  Oh, that grin… makes my knickers drop right to the floor.”

      “MUMMY!”

      “What?  Your father’s suffered a few near cases of pants drop when he’s seen that grin, too, and don’t you think otherwise.  That Lestrade… nobody can resist the grin.  Nobody.”

The world was on fire and he had nary a thimbleful of water to fight the blaze.  However… if he could withstand a moment of personal honesty amidst the inferno… his mother had a valid point about Gregory’s grin.  And his voice.  It would be the height of self-deception to claim otherwise.  It was, actually, one of the reasons he had been against the man for the role!  Gregory exuded such an air of masculine sexuality it seemed unlikely he could, in any manner, curtail the exudation for a character such as Bell.  Only meeting him and learning of his other, most stellar, qualities did his mind on the subject begin to change.

      “I cannot hear your prattle for I am now deaf.”

      “No you’re not.  You’ve tried that often enough that I know it’s not true.  And putting on that hearing aid isn’t going to work again, so don’t even try.”

Damn.

      “Mummy… if I agree that the next time I speak with Gregory, I shall broach the idea of him, perhaps, meeting you and Father, will that extract from my flesh your teeth and talons?”

      “I’ll need advance notice, so I can find something nice to wear.”

      “If the event ever occurs, I shall do my best to inform you in advance.”

      “And your father and I want tickets to the premiere of the film.”

      “That I cannot guarantee.”

      “I’ll ask Greg.  I’m sure he’ll do it for me.”

      “You… you have never met the man!”

      “Just a minor detail.  _Soon_ to be rectified.  Now, I have Phyllis and Audrey coming for wine and a chat, so I’ve got to dart out for a few nibbles, so we don’t get too tipsy too quickly.  Call your father, dear, and keep him from being bored.  It’s one of those story nights at the library and with all the little tots racing about, the rest of humanity avoids the library, so he’s got naught to do but twiddle his thumbs.”

      “First, this is a writing day, so I shan’t be making any phone calls and, second, Father relishes these occasions since he is being paid simply to read a book of his own.”

      “Phone him anyway and tell him we need milk.”

      “Goodbye, Mummy.  Do enjoy your lack of dairy.”

Mycroft stopped the transmission and tried to decide if he cared about the cliched unmanliness of weeping at one’s desk.  Given that he lacked immediate access to a tissue or handkerchief and recognizing that the horrifying sight of red streaks upon his face would likely send him into a self-perpetuating cycle of tears and frustration, chose, instead, to eat his last two biscuits, frown at his cooled tea and make an annoyed-toddler face at his monitor.  Joyful.  His inspiratory balloon was well and truly popped.

Or not.  Perhaps a bit more tea, something bracing to bathe his little gray cells in a stimulating bath of caffeine and they would deign again to bestow upon him the light of creative inspiration.  If that failed, at least he had a cup of hot tea as a consolation award.  And, he could ring Sherlock and tell him Mummy was hopeful for a visit.  That would stir up quite the tantrum and, right now, the entertainment value of that was not to be undervalued.  Then he would phone Anthea and find out why the announcement for the film, and Gregory’s casting, had occurred without his knowledge.  This was a direct violation of their contract and, hopefully, she was already taking steps to enact the proper penalty.

_ Then _ he should phone Gregory and… no, dear Gregory needed his rest, so that conversation would occur tomorrow.  But, occur it would and sooner rather than later.  They had lost their comfortable planning cushion and now must hasten their efforts to cement certain elements of Gregory’s presentation and performance.  Then they could begin on additional aspects of the film and potential casting possibilities for the other roles.  So much to do!  And so little time.  Fortunately, he and Gregory made a spectacularly-successful team and there was nothing they could not accomplish when their focus was turned towards it.  Including, hopefully, keeping Mummy and Father at bay.  Sherlock was enough of a spanner in the works than two larger and more experienced spanners were certainly a thing to be avoided…


	20. Chapter 20

Anderson knew that mobile phones were both the blessing and bane of his existence but some days the lean was very much to one side or the other.  Today, bane was winning by a landslide.  Why was his phone ringing now?  He was scarcely ten steps from his door and there was cold pizza waiting in the fridge for his loving attention…

      “Anderson.”

      “Food.”

At least the bane was speaking a language he both understood and approved of.

      “I’m listening.”

      “The place we met for lunch that day.”

      “I can be there in twenty minutes.”

      “I’m there now and you can do it in ten.”

      “I was going to stop to pee.”

      “Do it in an alley.  I’m ordering wine and if I have to drink it all myself, don’t think I won’t.”

      “Ten minutes it is.”

At least Anthea sounded as exhausted as he felt.  What a fucking crazy day, but somewhat par for the course in his business.  Wine and excellent food was the perfect reward for making it through with his head still on his shoulders, though.  And, since the film was now an official project, he could write off the cost as a legitimate expense.  The whiff of celebration was suddenly in the air and he could always find the energy for that…

__________

      “Eight minutes.  Did you run?”

Basically.

      “Grew wheels and had a beefy lad give me a hard push.”

      “Whatever works.  Wine?”

      “As much as the glass will hold.  I take it you, Mistress Anthea, were in your own maelstrom today.”

      “It’s amazing what one idiot’s drunken ramblings can do to upset your day.”

      “A lot of history can be described that way, I suspect.”

      “Very true.  I had to spend half of the day with the publisher who was panicking about reissuing the book, getting new cover art despite not knowing what cover art to use, how the holiday market should be managed, not knowing the final release date for the film so they don’t know if the holiday market is even relevant… when they were walking in circles waving their fists at the sky and mumbling about graphic-novel tie ins, I escaped out of the window.”

      “That was about my day, too, though without the graphic novels.  At least, for now.  The studio is very happy to collaborate with the publisher on any money-making venture, so I suspect that conversation is looming on my horizon if they want Greg’s ugly mug involved.”

      “Did you get any timeline specifics?”

      “Some, but not specific enough for my liking.  The director they want has two films signed, but those don’t have shooting schedules yet, so the execs are seeing what they can do to fit this one in by locking down a few other things, like, surprise, the script.  Nobody was expecting this to have to move so fast, but it’s not as if this doesn’t happen on a somewhat regular basis, so they do know how, ultimately, to handle things.”

      “Handling things and handling them correctly aren’t the same.”

      “No, they’re not, but there’s a lot of interest in this film, so I suspect it’s going to get priority over other projects that are also in the planning stage.  And, fortunately or unfortunately, it’s a cheap one to make and it’d be a quick one, too.  Greg is probably the most expensive aspect since there isn’t much for special effects, stunt work, CGI, etc.  When the cast and crew have been signed and there’s a script in hand, this’ll go fairly quickly, so I can’t say the publisher is wrong to be in somewhat of a panic.  I’m worried about Greg’s own schedule, actually.  He wants this film desperately, but fitting into what he already has lined up is going to make for a punishing calendar for him.  I’m hoping to clear some of that to make it easier, but… we’ll see.  Sometimes there’s just nothing to do but smile and carry on.”

      “I do feel for Greg here.  At least my client isn’t sharply impacted by any of this, besides my performing various mystical rituals to get him to agree to an interview or two.”

      “Nothing more in your contract than that?”

      “No and don’t think the studio execs weren’t shocked that he wouldn’t move on it.  That was the first hurdle to clear before we even got to the casting discussion.”

      “Lucky.”

      “Stubbornness makes its own luck sometimes.   Oh look, the wine’s gone.”

      “That can’t go unaddressed.  Another bottle, then we order something that’s not liquid to go with it?”

      “The best plan I’ve heard all day.  And, likely, for tomorrow, also.  I have to sit with my client and try to convince him that he can’t take over all aspects of the film, book reissues or weather.”

      “That last one’s going to be a bugger.”

      “I’ll bring him some amulets leftover from my mystic rituals.  They might keep him distracted from the other points of conversation while I smooth a few wrinkles.  Any actual details you have, I’d appreciate you sending them to me so I’ve got the firmest platform to stand on when talking to him.”

      “Not a problem.  Actually… I’ve got another meeting tomorrow about Greg’s scheduling needs and I don’t see a reason you can’t be there.  It’s just a here’s what’s already in place, what can we do to work within or around it sort of thing, but it should give you some idea of where everyone stands at this point.  Starts around ten if that works for you.”

      “I’ll be there.  My client only, not that I should say only, but he _only_ has an in-progress manuscript on his plate, at the moment, but… _your_ client does seem to have him convinced that he’s going to be a vital cog in the film machine going forward, which won’t make my life any easier.”

      “Don’t remind me.  I understand Greg giving assurances to help get the role, it’s manipulative but I can see the point of it in a perverted way.  However, that doesn’t seem to be King Greg’s actual motives and I may need to smack the crown off his head so he remembers he _is_ just a cog in all of this and not in charge of making promises.  He can’t even make promises to himself about giving up coffee!”

      “Well, he’s already promised there will be no argyle socks and Bell will wear braces in the film.  It’s only going to escalate from there, I can tell you now.”

      “Bloody wonderful.  At least, those two we can reasonably wiggle through.  I’ll have a ‘See this?  This is my serious face.’ conversation with Greg and remind him that fun is fun, but there’s a limit.”

      “Mr. Holmes is going to test that limit, too, and test it hard, I can assure you.”

      “Maybe _I_ should meet him.  Get an idea of his wavelength so I’ve got some tools in my toolbox to use on Greg if need be.”

      “That… that’s not the worst possible idea, but it’ll take some work on my part to make that happen.  And, do not show up unannounced like your foolish client because I can guarantee you that two times for that is _not_ going to be the charm.”

      “I won’t, but if you could arrange something, Anthea, I’d appreciate it.  Oh, looks like it’s time to order or this fine fellow is here to toss us out.”

      “It’s not quite late enough for them to close, but if we have another bottle of wine, I can’t promise we won’t be tossed out with the rubbish due to poor conduct.”

      “Are you an on-the-table dancer or a lampshade-on-the-head person?”

      “Depends.  I don’t see any lampshades in the vicinity, so my options are a touch limited.”

      “True.  And I left my dancing shoes at home.”

      “Food and wine is the extent, then.  Lots of both.”

      “Nothing wrong with lots.”

      “No.  No there isn’t…”

__________

Ok… Anthea could hold her wine better than he could.  Fortunately, she wasn’t averse to stealing his wallet so he could pay his share of the bill and make certain he got home safely, though how he ended up in bed wearing pyjamas with small blue bunnies on them, plus a small lampshade on each foot, was a mystery that he was happy never to see solved.  Especially since his bed didn’t smell like the perfume Anthea was wearing, so there would be no boasting to Greg about doing filthy things with the shapely literary agent.  Also, maybe if he didn’t mention anything, Anthea would never release the inevitable photographic evidence she had acquired and that really was best for everyone on the planet.

Now… oh good.  He had time to brush his teeth, vomit if need be and brush his teeth a second time, then make his morning meeting.  Where Anthea would be present, undoubtedly impeccably groomed and without any evidence of a hangover.  He should know better… his mum could always drink his dad under the table and there was no question in their family from whom he got most of his genes…

__________

      “To your credit, Anderson, I’m very impressed what you can do when you’re obviously cripplingly hungover.”

Anthea was impressed.  That almost made up for her being at the meeting exactly as professional and put-together as he’d predicted.  But, she also had used the few minutes before it started to shove a cup of coffee and muffin in his direction, which was kind.  Showing him _one_ of the photos she’d taken last night was _not_ kind, but he had her word that as long as he bought their next dinner, none of it would appear on social media.  Or be shown to Greg, which was leagues worse.

      “Hollywood hones that particular skill to a very fine point.”

      “Then I’m happy I’ve stayed away.  But, this was useful and, at least, it seems that the studio isn’t blind to the publishing end and our pursuit of filthy lucre.”

      “If there’s one thing they understand well, it’s lucre, filthy or not.  But, since the marketing campaign is going to take care to target the reading crowd, they know they’ve got to help draw in that audience.  Alienating the publishing world won’t help accomplish that.  Plus, for them, it’s an avenue of mostly-free advertising.  Win-win all around.”

      “And a win for them is a win for us and our worship of filthy lucre.”

      “Most certainly.  Off to catch your train?”

      “Unfortunately, yes.  I keep hoping Mr. Holmes will move back into his London house, but it’s a hope in vain.  I’ll relay what we learned today and start the campaign to get you into a meeting with him.  It may only be via phone, but if that’s what he offers, take it.  If it goes well, it could turn into something different later on.”

      “I will.  Let me know any other juicy details from your end?”

      “Will do.”

As Anthea flagged down a cab, Anderson pulled out his mobile and hoped Greg had gotten his sleep, tended to the few things he had on tap for the morning and was ready for a strategy session.  With coffee.  More coffee.  And lots of bread products to soak up the stomach acid.  Greg may not have his new toaster yet, but right now, half-raw/half-burnt toast sounded like manna from heaven…

__________

      “I thought _I_ looked like a train wreck today.”

      “You do, Greg, don’t delude yourself by thinking otherwise.  And I got this way negotiating something resembling a manageable work diary for you, so show me your appreciation by giving me coffee.  And toast.”

      “Oh, hungover.  Got it.  I’ll work on your edible medicine while you make me happy by telling me that I’m not in for a no-break year of agony.”

      “You’re not in a no-break year of agony.  But don’t expect _many_ breaks and prepare for _some_ degree of agony.”

      “Worse than the North Sea shoot?”

      “No, that much I can pledge.  I put the likelihood of frostbite or drowning at under ten percent.”

      “Decapitation?”

      “Fifteen percent.”

      “We’ve gone with worse.  Let’s hear it.”

Anderson outlined the new future for Greg, which was very much like the old future, but with a new film slipped in and molded around the existing footprint.  Definitely not as bad as he’d experienced a few times, but…

      “I am going to want, no… need… a holiday after all of that.”

      “Which is why I padded things a touch so we should have a buffer for unexpected, yet totally expected, calls for reshoots or dialogue fixes or over-abundant appearance bookings so you should be able to arrange something nice and relaxing without worrying about having to cancel.”

      “You may just have earned sugar with your coffee.”

      “I feel honored.  Now… this is my serious face, do you see it?”

      “I’m trying very hard not to.”

      “Stop promising Mycroft Holmes the sun and the moon for the film.  Men’s fashion accessories are one thing, and I can probably square that with wardrobe, but nothing else.”

      “Ummm… I’ll try.”

      “That’s not good enough, Greg, and you know it.”

      “It _is_ good enough if we stay in the area of little things that’ll make him happy but nobody else will care about.  Consider it an investment in the future.  The happier he is, the more certain Mycroft is that his opinion will be taken seriously, the more likely it is he’ll agree to let more of his books be filmed.”

      “Why do I think that’s not the only reason you want this?”

      “Because you’re ugly, but not stupid.  He _is_ the author and… he’s got a solid view of his character and the world he created.  It’s right and proper to honor that view as much as we can.”

      “Nope, that’s not it.  Or, at least, not all of it.  Keep going.”

      “It makes him happy!  What’s wrong with that?”

      “Nothing.  Nothing wrong with that, at all, until he’s at loggerheads with the director and this turns into a flaming disaster.”

      “That won’t happen.”

      “You say that now, but I’m warning you that you don’t want that dynamic growing.  We’ve both seen it when stubbornness and drama take a good film and bring it to ruin.”

      “I know, and it won’t get to that point.  I mean… at least not because of me.  I can’t say he won’t get reports from the set by other means and not like what he hears, but between me and Anthea, I think we can address the issue in a way that makes him happy but doesn’t really alter the film.  But, let’s also be truthful – sometimes a film is being botched and an outside player is exactly what is needed to get it back on track.”

      “That’s the rarity.”

      “This is a rare film.”

Anderson’s bleary eyes were still sharp enough to catch the determination on Greg’s face and his brain was just on the right side of functional to recognize there was more there than a desire for the film to succeed.

      “This is important to you, isn’t it?”

      “That’s the most Captain Obvious thing you’ve ever said.”

      “No, because I don’t mean it as obviously as that.  All films are important to you or, at least, most, but… you honestly don’t want Holmes to be disappointed.”

Running a hand through his hair, Greg nodded towards the coffee pot for Anderson to pour himself a cup and remembered to do something to the toaster besides just sticking in the bread.

      “He’s a… Mycroft’s priorities are different than ours and he has a level of passion and devotion to his books and his characters that we, or I, don’t necessarily have when working on a film.  It’s hard to think about someone like that seeing something so important to him butchered.”

      “He’s still getting paid, though.  And handsomely.”

      “It’s not always about money and you know that.  It’s about pride and, frankly, love.  He cares for his work like you would a child and it’s not surprising he’s incredibly nervous about what will happen to it in other people’s hands.”

      “Like an overprotective mum when she does the very first school run for her kid?”

      “Easily.  Also, he could be worried that a shit film would hurt his sales and reputation.  I doubt it, since a shit film might make people actually want to read the book, if they haven’t, to see how it compares, but it’s an understandable worry.”

      “I’m not saying it’s not, but… this has become personal for you, hasn’t it?”

      “No-o…”

      “That’s your yes no.”

      “It’s not my yes no.  It’s my sort-of-yes no.  Mycroft’s a decent fellow.  And… this has the potential to hurt him.  Really hurt, not just frustrate or anger.  His heart would break into a thousand pieces of the film is rubbish and… I’m honestly sure he could easily move past that.  Me, I’ve had flops and I can shrug it off quickly enough, but Mycroft… I don’t think he’d ever be able to shake it off.  Right now, just making what he sees as necessary contributions is keeping him enthusiastic and engaged and optimistic.  And, if I’m lucky, if the film doesn’t do terribly well, I can convince him that it’s the studio’s fault or the director’s or editor’s… help keep his heart together as much as possible.”

      “That’s a lot of I’s, Greg.  Again, this has become personal for you, hasn’t it?”

      “What does that even mean?”

      “Has Greggy found someone interesting, perhaps?  In the ‘my, is it getting hot in here’ sort of interesting.”

      “You’re loony.  It’s nothing like that.”

      “Then what is it like?”

      “What’s wrong with being friends?  Can’t two men be friends anymore without people thinking they’re shagging?”

      “Given I didn’t know you were friends and your brain went right to shagging, I feel the need to explore this more deeply.  How often do you fantasize about shagging Mycroft Holmes and how kinky does it get?”

      “Fuck you.”

      “Feel free to fantasize about fucking me, my rates for fantasy fucking are very reasonable, but let’s keep our focus on Mycroft for now.”

      “We’re friends!”

      “You just met him.”

      “Yeah, well… sometimes you just connect with a person.  They fit with you.  And don’t turn that into anything filthy, you pervert.”

      “It was too easy; I don’t reach for low-hanging fruit.  Speaking of your saggy plums, has Mycroft seen them, and what is his opinion about you doing pornos if this film ruins your career?”

      “You’re the most ridiculous person in the universe.”

      “Do I win a prize for that?”

      “Half-burnt toast and bitter coffee.”

      “I’ll take it.  And, for my acceptance speech, I’ll lead with an ode to your smoldering lust for the famous author Mycroft Holmes, then belch a few times to make room for more coffee.”

      “Friends!  We are friends.  Officially.”

      “That sounds official.”

      “It is.  We… sort of made a proclamation.”

      “You know I cannot let that sit there with its bare arse hanging out.”

      “Yeah, and I can’t blame you.  But, it’s true and… that’s what I mean about Mycroft potentially being hurt.  He puts more meaning into things than other people and sees them a different way.  I toss about the term ‘friend’ without a second thought, but it’s something completely different for him.  Something far more serious and important.”

      “And you entered into this serious and important relationship with him.”

      “Fuck you again.”

      “As long as you’re gentle this time.  Which reminds me, is Mycroft a gentle or rough sex sort of man?”

      “We like to watch films!  Talk about… stuff.  Take long walks.”

That _did_ sound serious and important.  Shit.

      “So, just in the dating stage right now.  Ok… nothing wrong with that.  Lots right with it, actually.  Too many people jump straight to fucking and that’s not the way to go if you want things to last.”

      “Drink your coffee, you bastard.  Hopefully the cyanide I slipped in it doesn’t change the flavor too much.”

      “Is Mycroft a flowers and sweets person or does he appreciate the unusual and unexpected sort of gift?”

Flowers and sweets were certainly something Mycroft appreciated, but he might like something out-of-the ordinary, too.  Wait… why was he even thinking about this?  Anderson was the brain-damaged one, not him!

      “This is precisely why _you_ don’t have any friends, you useless agent.  You’re not worthy.  And an idiot.”

      “You’re imagining his warm, soft lips right now, aren’t you?”

      “I’m imagining yours.  Bleeding and swollen from a collision with my fist.”

      “Bifocals!”

      “What?”

      “That’s my safe word.  I don’t mind a bit of a spanking, but I do draw the line at anything in the region of my face.  It is my moneymaker, you know.”

      “Eat your toast, then die.”

      “I will.  Got any jam to go with my death, though?”

      “Yeah, actually.  Grocery people brought in a strawberry one that’s nicer that what I usually have.  Not as good as Tuesday jam, though, I must admit.”

      “What’s that?”

      “I have no idea, but sometimes not knowing is half the fun.”

      “Like me not knowing about your torrid affair with Mr. Mycroft Holmes?”

      “When I accept my Oscar, expect me to shove it straight up your arse.”

      “Better than what you did to your first BAFTA.”

      “I glued it back together!”

      “Backwards.”

      “Eat your toast.”

__________

Anderson reminded himself for the thousandth time, as he fumbled his key into the door of his flat, not to get pissed on red wine because it was his own personal weapon of mass destruction.  At least Greg was sorted, as well as Greg could ever be sorted, and his appointment tonight had cheerfully agreed to postpone until tomorrow since it would give them an extra hour or so at some party they wanted to attend.  Which was a party _he_ was supposed to attend, for business reasons, but fuck that with a very large fucking implement.  More toast, Greg’s stolen jam, a hot bath, something soothing on the telly, and…

      “Where have you been?  I have been waiting and your flat has replaced my brother’s picture in the OED to illustrate the definition of boring.”

… and he had a housebreaker sitting on his sofa, watching his telly and…

      “Are you eating my leftover Chinese?”

      “Only the eggrolls.  John refuses to allow me more than a single one per meal and that is an abridgement of my civil rights which proves he has fascist leanings.”

A housebreaker with a posh voice and no apparent tendency towards immediate violence.

      “Who is John?”

      “Lestrade’s lapdog.  I have no idea how he reconciles his fascism with his slobbering adoration for the lackluster thespian, however, as both are appalling, it is not worth my time to ponder.  Now, begin reciting your credentials and detail to me why I should engage you as my agent.”

What?

      “I… no.”

      “If you believe I shall hire you, not that hire is the proper term for I have no intention of paying for your services, but in any case, if you believe that Lestrade’s endorsement is sufficient, rest assured that it is not.  I would not credit an endorsement from him for sausages, even if I had eaten one myself and found it to be an exemplar of foodstuffs.”

That’s twice Greg’s name has been tossed out and neither time did it sound like Mr. Housebreaker was trying to lie about knowing the evil sod.  Didn’t hurt to ask, though.

      “You know Greg?”

      “Oh no, not only are you boring, but stupid, as well.  I admit neither is surprising given you work in film and represent Lestrade, but it is my greatest failing that I still harbor some nanoscale hope that not all humans are tedious and dimwitted.”

Asking hurt!

      “I’m not boring!  Or stupid.”

      “I have substantial doubt the evidence is in your favor, but perhaps you can sway my opinion during the interview.”

      “What interview?”

      “My opinion is not swaying.”

      “You… you just sit there.”

      “I intend to.”

Anderson pulled out his mobile, strongly considered phoning the police, but decided another tactic might produce faster results.

      “What do you want, Anderson?  I thought you’d have crawled into rubbish bin and died by now from alcohol toxicity.  Or my coffee which is lethal in its own right.”

      “Funny, Greg.  Look, I’m at my flat and… there’s some bloke here who says he knows you.”

      “Ok… that’s not what I expected you to say.  Who is he?”

      “Hold on… you, what’s your name?”

      “Sherlock.”

      “He says his name is Sherlock, but I can’t believe that’s real.”

Though your pained groan, Greg, is convincing me otherwise.

      “It’s real.  Though I’m not sure that being true about him.  He’s Mycroft’s brother.”

      “Really?  He’s more of a prat than I would have expected.”

Sherlock’s hiss was loud enough to warrant a small round of applause that Anderson dutifully bestowed.

      “Hard to believe, isn’t it, that someone who’s written all those brilliant novels has that for a brother, but it’s true.  It’s ok to let him in, though, and…”

      “He _is_ in.  He was here when I got home, eating my food and using his arse to warm my sofa.”

      “Don’t you lock your door?”

      “Yes.”

Greg’s smile grew wide and he settled into the experience of Anderson being haunted by the Ghost of Christmas Ghastly.  Good boy, Sherlock.  Make the hungover twat pay for his cruel, cruel teasing.

      “Oh, well, that’s a surprise.  But… Sherlock _is_ a detective, so maybe it’s not surprising he’s picked up a few skills along the way.”

Or got a few lessons from a retired art thief who shall remain nameless, but might be willing to share those skills with an actor who had an unquenchable thirst for learning.

      “Detective?  I thought maybe an actor, since he said some nonsense about me representing him.”

      “Oh yeah, I gave him your mobile number to talk about that, but the lad must have decided to take the more direct approach.”

Which is now making this prank far more prankier than predicted.  Greg shoots, Greg scores!  And the crowd goes wild…

      “What!  You bastard, you did that on purpose.”

      “I don’t think there’s any way _to_ give someone a mobile number besides it being on purpose, but you could be more worldly in that area than me.”

      “And today of all days… how much will it cost me to make him go away?”

Anderson flicked off the bean sprout that Sherlock had throw across the room with surprising accuracy and force for a low-mass eggroll stuffer.

      “I _can_ hear you, Anderson, and must say that your lack of eagerness for my business is a thick, oily black mark against you.”

      “You said you weren’t going to pay me, anyway, Sherlock, so what do I care?”

      “Ah, so you have already agreed to my offer.  Excellent.  Sit and we shall commence the discussion about my consulting fee and screen credit.  I have very specific ideas about the font that should be used, as well as its size and weight.”

      “Greg, get over here _now_ and send your friend on his way.”

      “He’s not my friend.  He doesn’t have warm, soft lips which, by your definition, is necessary for befriendedness.”

      “Now.”

      “Nope.  You want to evict the berk, you do it yourself, but think hard since he is Mycroft’s brother and being evil to him might put Mycroft in a foul mood.”

      “Why do I suspect his brother thinks he’s a tit as much as I do?”

      “That’s for me to know and you, maybe to find out.  Bye.”

Anderson stared at this mobile, which was now little more than a paperweight in his hand and gave it a rude gesture for being the vehicle of his discontent.

      “Miserable mouse-fucker.”

      “Lestrade has that effect on me, also.  Perhaps you are not as limp-minded as I anticipated.”

      “Well, thanks for that.  Now, how about you leave and…”

      “No.”

      “Why not?”

      “I have not finished the egg rolls.  Nor have we scripted a contract for services.”

      “Leave.  You can have the egg rolls.  I’ll even give you a few quid to buy more.  Fresh, hot ones, this time.”

      “I refuse.  At least for at the moment.  I shall, however, take the money when I depart as an installment payment for my consulting fee.”

      “What consulting fee!”

      “You are an abysmal negotiator.  It is clear why Lestrade makes such infantile films.  I am reconsidering you as my agent.”

      “Good!  I have no idea what you’re talking about, but good!  Reconsider on your way out the door.”

      “No.”

      “Oh god… look, can your lunacy wait until I have a shower?”

      “First, I am not a lunatic.  Mycroft has papers with his solicitor testifying to that fact.  Second, yes.  Your pungency is overwhelming even at this distance.”

      “Thank you.  Let me shower and then… we can talk about whatever is rolling about in your head.”

      “Very well.  You may start my tea before you begin.”

      “What?  No.  Why would you even begin to think I’d make you tea?”

      “You are my host and John is not here.”

      “You broke in, so I’m not your host, I’m your hostage, and I’m beginning to feel very fucking sorry for this John person.”

      “I have no idea why.  He is currently enjoying one of Lestrade’s films at our flat and gleefully kissing the screen when the dolt prances across it.”

      “I don’t even need to know John to know that’s not true.  Greg doesn’t prance.”

      “Fine.  Strut.  Is that more appropriate?”

      “Yes.  But, since Greg’s not here, and is a colossal arse, we can use the term prance for the purposes of your exaggerated insult.”

      “So noted.  Now, tea.  The egg rolls are making me parched.”

Suspecting that his kettle would be lethally dented if he threw it at Sherlock’s hard head, Anderson threw a teabag, instead, but did get water heating to dunk the teabag into once it was ready.  Greg was going to pay for this and pay large.  However, if Sherlock _was_ a detective, then the consulting nonsense might not be as nonsensical as it sounded.  Greg did do his research for a new film and talking to a real detective was a sound preparation strategy.  And, this particular detective, no matter how infuriating and obstinate, was directly connected to Mycroft Holmes, himself.  Greg’s new friend.  Indulging the baby brother to keep big brother happy?  Again, not the worst strategy in the world, especially if the indulgence took a large crap on the day of a certain hungover agent.  He’d phone Anthea tomorrow and get the goods on this Sherlock person, but there was nothing wrong with hearing him out now and deciding if he did have something to offer Greg and the film.

If not, heaven knows there were plenty of hangers-on for every film that you tossed a few quid or put their name on the screen because they were the producer’s nephew or cousin of the stunt coordinator.  Just part of the game and it was a game he knew well.

      “This is pauper’s tea.  I demand something suitable for a genius of my standing.”

Sometimes games involved murder, though, didn’t they? Cluedo, for instance.  The killer was Philip Anderson, in his flat, with a tea kettle.  Already he was a winner!  The day was starting to look up…


	21. Chapter 21

      “Whzdedplzltmeslp.”

Greg was extremely happy he hadn’t fumbled his mobile so it landed on the floor, since the idea of moving even a millimeter in this cozy nest he called a bed was about the most terrible thing he could imagine at the moment.  Besides, of course, having to take a call in this cozy nest, in the first place.

      “Gregory, I am exceedingly worried that you have suffered a stroke or other form of brain injury that has produced an inability to properly communicate.  I shall alert the authorities to send an ambulance.  I suppose you are sufficiently famous that they will know your home address and can respond promptly.”

Mycroft!  Well, the cozy nest might permit one call without enacting too great a penalty on his sleep-deprived form.

      “Wht?  No… no promptly.  Nothing respondy.”

      “This is fully supporting my decision.  I… continue to speak with me as best as you can, Gregory, while I use another phone to summon your aid.”

      “No… It’s ok, Mycroft.  I was just very deep in wherever your brain goes when you’re asleep and it was a long journey back out.  Really, I’m fine, but I thank you for being concerned.”

      “Ah, I see.  I am a light sleeper myself, but Sherlock does, on occasion, become fully immobilized by the lure of sleep, which requires nearly an earthquake to prompt him to stir.  I must say, however, that I am somewhat surprised you are still asleep at this hour.  I did wait for what seemed an appropriate time to phone.”

      “Surprised?  What time is…

Seven in the morning.  Or as it was called by sensible people – fuck o’clock am.  To Mycroft, though, this qualified as a late night phone call for Mycroft’s upside-down lifestyle… ok, be decent because Mycroft actually tried to be considerate and that’s a good thing, even if several more hours of sleep would have been so very, very wonderful.

      “Oh, it _is_ time for me to be awake, isn’t it?  Not good to be a layabout.”

      “No, it is not.  I have no doubt someone with your work ethic is normally an early riser, but I suppose your recent visit disrupted your sleep schedule as it did mine.”

Oh, it did, which was why the plan had been to cling to this bed until it got fed up with being clung to like a sloth mummy by its sloth baby and bucked him onto the floor.

      “That is a very astute analysis.  Are you on your way for a little sleep yourself?”

      “I am, in point of fact.  The fatigue is most debilitating, however, I have completed the writing I hoped to accomplish, so it is not impacting my productivity.”

      “Productivity is very important, so good for you fighting off the fatigue until the bitter, bitter end.  Get some good stuff on the proverbial paper?”

      “I did, in point of fact.  After Mummy’s rhinoceros romp through my evening, I found my mind unexpectedly stimulated towards a new direction for a chapter on which I was working.  The result was highly successful.”

      “Your mum phoned… oh, that’s an alternately great and miserable, thing, isn’t it?  You love them and love talking to them, but you also wish sometimes that your phone suddenly experienced a strange electrical glitch so you could have a reprieve without it actually being your fault the call was shut off.”

      “That is a far more elaborate wish than any I have harbored, but I believe I glean your meaning.”

      “It’s always good to be gleaned.  Which reminds me… I should phone my own parents and say hello.  They get upset if I phone often when I’m out of the country because, according to my dad ‘it’s a waste of good fucking money and it all goes to the twats that own the bloody phone companies,’ but I haven’t given them a ring since I got home.”

      “Your father seems a respectably frugal man.”

      “Frugal is a nice word for it.  Pinches pence so hard you hear the metal scream is a better way of putting it, though he doesn’t think twice about spending a fortune on that expensive ice cream they sell in the posh shops.”

      “If there is an area where one should eschew frugality, quality ice cream would be a highly-probably candidate.”

      “True.  And, to be fair, I think it’s because Mum actually loves it and he’d move the sun and the Earth for her if she asked him to.”

      “A romantic.  It _is_ most adorable when the elderly evince a romantic streak.”

      “Adorable and embarrassing at the same time.”

      “The paradoxical nature of parents again emerges.  It is a most complex situation.”

      “I agree.  So, Mycroft… what’s up?”

Because you called and I still don’t really know the reason why.  Not that you need a reason, but I suspect one exists anyway.

      “Ah, yes.  I phoned to formally lay to rest your likely concern that I blame you, personally, for news of our joint venture being leaked at this early and unagreed-upon date.”

That was so profoundly Mycroft it was nearly unbelievable.

      “Thank you, Mycroft, I appreciate that.”

      “Anthea assured me that the revelation was made by a third party who is no longer associated with the film studio and there was nothing you could have done to know of the faux pas or prevent the news from being disseminated.”

      “Loose lips can sink ships and that berk’s lips are looser than most, especially when he’s pissed.  This was the last straw for the studio since announcing a new film is a big thing, publicity wise, and the studios take it very seriously.  They were lucky the reporter contacted them for confirmation so they could see a bit more for an announcement than ‘Oh, some drunken bastard let this spill, just like he did his sixth whiskey.’  And, I have a few quick interviews shoved in this week to jump on this so the news spreads out further and builds anticipation.”

      “Oh dear, that sounds dreadful.”

      “Only a tiny amount of dread involved, I suspect.  Nothing I’m not used to, though I _will_ admit to being a bit annoyed that what little time I may have had to simply relax the next few months just vanished in a puff of smoke.”

      “It… it did?”

      “Again, not something I’m not used to, it’s just bollocks when it happens.”

      “I see.”

What did he see?  It couldn’t be good, because that wasn’t a happy see tone.  That was a wistful see tone.  Maybe even a sad see tone!  That wasn’t allowed.  Mycroft wasn’t allowed to use sad see tones.  They’d agreed to that, or not, during their popcorn feast.  Or it might have been something about shortbread they agreed to, but shortbread started with an ‘s’ just like sad and see so it was fucking close enough.

      “Something wrong, Mycroft?”

      “No.  Nothing is wrong.”

Something was wrong!

      “How about you try that again and try not to sound like a lad who just ate the last of his favorite sweets from the jar and his mum says the shop doesn’t have those anymore.”

      “Dear me, that poor child.”

      “Focus, Mycroft.  _You_ are the poor child for the purposes of this conversation.”

      “I am?  Why am I poor?”

      “Because you don’t have your sweets!”

      “Untrue.  They are in their container on my desk.”

      “Trace this back, Mycroft.  Keep going until you reach the part where I asked you what was wrong and you gave me an answer that… ok, not using any analogies or we’ll go round the twist again.  I promise I’m not overworking myself, if that’s your worry.  I’ll still be spry and eager to step into Bell’s shoes, not a single extra wrinkle on this face.”

      “I am most certain I never specified the number of wrinkles on Diogenes Bell’s face, so why is that relevant?”

The agony was agonizing.

      “Mycroft, what’s got you off-footed about me taking on some extra work?

      “I… I am not off-footed.”

That was worse than your sad see tone!

      “I’m worried you’ll fall over you’re so off-footed.”

      “I am sitting that down, so your assertion is impossible.”

      “Mycroft, would you just tell me what’s wrong!  And don’t say nothing because your voice is very telling and I’ve been practicing noticing things to play a detective, so you best come clean or I’ll call you an evil fibber.”

      “You will not!”

      “I will!  I might even say filthy fibber for the consonance.”

      “Oh…”

      “What?”

      “Most individuals lack awareness of consonance, let alone assonance.”

      “I know assonance.  I’m fond of it, actually.”

And have been since I was a lad because it sounds dirty and that was, as expected, positively hilarious to me and my mates.

      “I am most pleased by that, Gregory.  Too few appreciate the mechanics of language, let alone begin to utilize it properly.”

      “That’s nothing but obfuscatory, Mycroft.  Back to the point of all of this.”

      “I fail to remember it.  But bravo for bringing a rather neglected word into the discussion.” 

      “You are worse than your brother!”

      “No person on Earth is worse than Sherlock!”

      “Ha!  You’re wrongity wrong and I’ll let you know how much the next time I see you and… well, don’t get used to those still-existing sweets staying on your desk because they’re slated for a different fate entirely.”

      “That was a tactical error, Gregory, as we are both aware that your schedule prohibits any visits for what amounts to a geologic era.  My sweets shall remain unmolested.”

Ooh… was a tiny bit of fire in your voice, Mycroft?  Not a silly, bantery bit of fire, but something that smacked of, perhaps, genuine irritation or, more likely… _frustration._  Maybe because I promised to visit and basically said that’s fucking stabbed in the back since I’m booked with obligations.  Which would be both irritating, frustrating and… possibly worse… since I suspect you take promises very, very seriously.  Pinkie promises, especially.  Doubly especially with someone you’d had a befriending ceremony with and that was a nasty way of saying that because Mycroft opened up himself to having a friend and he deserves better than you being a prat, you stupid fucking brain.  Moving on… 

      “Another dive into the wrongity pool!  Don’t think I can’t sneak away now and then to molest your sweets.  I can and, believe me, I will.

      “You… you will?”

That wasn’t frustration.  That was a touch of hopeful disbelief that sounds like it can’t happen, but can and more often than a body might expect.  Target hit square on the bull’s eye.  Have to remember, have to drill into the stupid prat of the brain to remember that Mycroft operates on a different frequency and has a few more worries about things than other people.  Learning, though… always learning.

      “Yep, though, I suppose the way I was talking it didn’t seem that way.  It’s just the way people talk, though, when they’re deluged with work.  There’s always that bit of time here and there, though, for friends, though it may not be as much as anyone would like until the work issues calm down a touch.”

      “Oh… yes, I do admit that it appeared you would be unavailable for… well, for anything, actually.  It… it is good to know it was a misapprehension.”

      “An understandable one.”

      “When, then, can I next expect you?”

Your sweets are going to be molested, Mycroft.  Molested like flavorful balls have never been molested before in the history of time.

      “That I can’t say with confidence because Anderson’s finalizing a few things, so dates could shift a little.  But, it won’t be _too_ long.”

      “Excellent.  In truth, however… this does downgrade my own situation from Operation Aqua Block to something far more manageable.”

      “Ok, you know I have to ask.”

      “About what?”

      “Operation Aqua Block.”

      “It is… nothing.”

      “We’re back to ball molesting full force!”

      “You will leave alone my balls, Gregory Lestrade, or I shall have to take a firm hand to your… shenanigans.”

      “My shenanigans do like a firm hand now and again, but you are not going to drop some Cold War era spy mission name on me then try to nothing it away.  Not gonna happen.  Not in a trillion years.”

      “Might I simply beg this one dispensation?”

      “Oh, you like begging, do you?  That contrasts a bit with the firm hand stance from a moment ago.”

      “I… you have a point.”

      “And my reward is being read in for Operation Aqua Block.”

      “That… you do not know what a thing it is you ask, Gregory.”

Maybe not, but that’s not a genuinely upset tone.  Upset, yes, but not _upset_ upset, so on we go.

      “That’s why the asking is important, so I _do_ know what it is I’m asking.  I’ll be honest with you, Mycroft.  Your humbugs are now in danger and I did see some toffee lurking about that probably yearns to be free from you clutches.”

      “That is utterly unfair!  Those toffees are specially crafted in small batches and only sold to select clientele!”

      “Operation Aqua Block!”

      “It is the steps and strategies I, and the rest of the house, must implement to preempt a visit by... Mummy.  And Father, though, he is never as pestiferous about demanding a visit as is she, so it is extremely rare to launch Operation Bow Tie Barricade.  That is a tremendous blessing as Mummy can sometimes be distracted with mention of a current flower show or other goings-on that she enjoys, but father is more single-minded and difficult to put off track.”

Mycroft’s father wore bow ties.  That… there really wasn’t any other image possible, was there?  Just one thing…

      “Does your dad wear specs?”

      “Yes, why do you ask?”

Because that detail was required to make the image not only right, but perfect.

      “Just curious.  You said he was a librarian and they often seem to wear specs.  So… I take it your mum has been hoping for a visit?”

      “It is entirely against the rules and agreements we have established for scheduling visits, however…”

      “Yeah?

      “Mummy is…”

      “Double yeah?”

      “Mummy is somewhat eager to, perhaps, make your acquaintance.  Why are you laughing?”

Mycroft’s mum was a fan!  Oh, this was brilliant.  Hoping to push her son into getting her some face time with this old, but still holding its own, face.  Yeah, Mycroft was doomed.  Mum’s didn’t let go of that sort of thing, no more than they let go of wanting to meet the new man or woman in your life.  Not that’s what’s going on here, but the sound of a mum on a mission was sounding clearly into the it’s-barely-fucking-dawn hour of the day.

      “Because your mum is leveraging you for the chance to meet my raggedy self.  Did you tell her about me being raggedy and not at all impressive in person?”

      “Hmmm… I admit that tactic did not occur to me.  Mummy is most taken by your appearance on film, however, I do agree that it is far more… muted… in person.”

Muted.  He’d been called worse.  Lots worse.  Very lots worse, in certain cases.

      “That it is.  The hair, makeup and wardrobe people do a cracking job making me look the part of an actual film star.  I can’t be bothered to shave half the time and wear clothes my own mum would tut over and, most likely, bin for being an embarrassment.”

      “Oh my, that does sound…”

      “Ghastly?”

      “That was not precisely the world for which I was searching, however, it performs the task equally well.”

      “Ghastly Greg Lestrade.  It’s sort of catchy!  So, we have to find some time for me to meet your parents, hmmm?  I’ll put Anderson on carving out a day or so, not writing days, for me to pop in and say hello.”

      “What!  No… no no no no, you cannot possibly be suggesting that.”

      “I am suggesting the hell out of it!  Why wouldn’t I want to do something to make your mum happy?  It’s what you do, make friends’ mum’s happy!  You compliment them, be polite, help them get a pitcher down from the high shelf, that sort of thing.”

      “No, you have no idea, Gregory, how… _meddlesome_ is Mummy.”

      “All mums are meddlesome, Mycroft.  I think something happens during pregnancy, shakes up all their body chemistry and activates their meddlesome genes.  It’s science.”

      “I do not think that is correct.”

      “I’ll look it up on Wikipedia, but I’m fairly certain science is heavily involved.”

      “Wikipedia is not a valid source of information.”

      “It’s valid enough for us ghastly types.”

      “I shall not recognize any claim made with evidence taken from Wikipedia.”

      “I’ll tell your mum she’s a looker and make her giggle, just so you go loony.”

      “You would not dare!”

      “I dare!”

It seemed they’d had this conversation before, though in slightly different form.  Given Mycroft was wildly entertaining when he was aghast, it was a conversation they’d likely have again in the future, too.  Often.

      “Gregory, you just declared your time to be punishingly scheduled…”

      “ _Then_ I declared that I have time for a visit now and then with friends, so let the daring commence!”

      “Gregory… please.  Mummy shall be positively… giddy!”

      “Yes!  Oh, that’s just the way I’d hope her to be.  Not because I’m an arrogant bastard, but because it’s always a joy to make someone happy with a little conversation or an autograph.”

      “There will not be a ‘little’ conversation.  There will be a nonstop flow of giddiness and interrogation that shall… I will not survive.  There, I have said it plainly.  I shall meet my death and the fault wholly will be yours.”

      “Go ahead and die.  I’ll find one of those taxidermy chaps to stuff you with your arms outstretched so I can put you in my house to use as a coatrack.”

      “That is… diabolical!”

      “And I’ll make you wear different outfits, too, especially at holidays.  Dress up my coatrack in all sorts of fancy dress that everyone who visits will get to see and admire.”

      “No!”

      “Wait until you see what I’ll kit you up with for Halloween.  Oh right, you’ll be dead so you can’t see.  Maybe your ghost will, though.  It’ll be apoplectic, but unable to change a single thing.  Heh heh heh…”

      “GREGORY!”

Oops.  Might have gone a touch too far.

      “Fine, maybe you’ll be one of those ghosts that can move things with the power of your… ghostliness.”

      “You will… I demand that you present yourself at this house and make a formal apology for… oh, I am overcome.”

      “I was presenting myself anyway, to meet your parents, so there.  Ha!  I win!”

      “NO!  No… you…”

      “Bamboozled you again?”

      “YES!  How have you done this?  What eldritch power do you possess, Gregory Lestrade?  You cannot be human, you simply cannot.”

      “I’ve been accused of a lot of things and, yes, not being human is one of them.  Usually it’s because of my incredible sexual stamina, but there’s been other reasons.  Like my nice arse.  But, I suppose that could be lumped in with the sexual stamina in to a single, larger category.”

      “You… Mummy _covets_ your bottom!  This is a disaster!”

      “Your mum is a woman of impeccable taste.  I admire it myself, now and then, in the mirror.”

      “I…”

      “Speechless?  Yeah, it happens.  Usually after someone’s seen my firm, succulent bum, but sometimes before that due to the anticipation.”

      “We will no longer discuss your… anatomy.”

      “It’s looming large in your mind right now, isn’t it?  Just like a creamy, full moon, which is probably why they call it mooning, come to think of it.”

      “urblgrhhz…”

      “That sounded painful.  Please don’t tell me I actually killed you, Mycroft.  If Molly and Mrs. Hudson find your body first, they’ll be the ones to have all the fun with it and not me, which isn’t sporting in the slightest since I’m the one who went to the effort of bringing about your horrible demise.”

      “You and Mummy deserve each other.”

      “Great!  How about your dad?  Think he’ll deserve me or should I give my shoes an extra bit of polish so I make a good impression?”

      “Pfft.  Father is very much like me, so I fully expect… no, in truth, I cannot continue with my intended barb, for I _do_ appreciate shoes that are freshly polished.”

      “How about I credit you with a particularly sharp barb anyway because I know you think of excellent ones.”

      “That is true, so I shall accept my credit and add it to my account.”

      “Good!  Now, I’ll talk to Anderson about which day looks possible, that’s not a writing day, and we can have a nice little visit that will make your parents happy, which will make _you_ happy, in the long term, because you’ll benefit from their good graces due to being a good son and getting them a visit with a film star, who’s actually a raggedy and not especially interesting sort of fellow, but they can lord it over their neighbors from here til eternity.”

      “Hmmm… that is a somewhat valid point.  Mummy and Father are staggeringly easier to manage when they feel satisfied with our familial relations.”

      “See?  Always look for the silver lining.”

      “I suppose you are correct, however, I trust that your standard level of tomfoolery will be ameliorated during the visit.”

      “I will be on my best behavior, I promise.”

      “Very well.  I shall instruct Anthea to coordinate with your agent to secure a suitable window of opportunity for this tete-a-tete.”

      “Are we back to spy missions again?  Please say yes.”

      “I…”

Mycroft chewed his lower lip a moment and though long and hard about his response.  There had been no intent to continue with Gregory’s silliness, however… it would not be the proverbial end of the world to contend otherwise.  It might, actually… be fun. 

      “…we could be.”

      “Brilliant!  What’s my code name?  I need a code name.”

      “That _is_ an essential element of a spy’s character.”

      “You’ll need one, too, of course.”

      “I will?”

      “How can we be spies on a mission if you don’t have a code name?  I’d have to leave you home with the laundry or something since you couldn’t go with me on exciting adventures.”

The expectation had been for Gregory to be the spy and recount some ridiculous fantasy for both their amusement, however, his participation, as a full partner in the proposed espionage was expected.  This was… rather exhilarating.

      “You… you would take me on the exciting adventure?”

      “Sure!  I’m good with all the actiony stuff, since I’ve done a lot of actiony stuff on screen, but I’ll need you to be the suave, calculating spy that comes up with all the plans and schemes.”

      “Plans and schemes _are_ somewhat a talent of mine.”

      “See?  Our spy names will have to the sort that sound good when said together, like Steed and Peel, Solo and Kuryakin, that sort of thing.”

      “Yes, that is critical.  There should a natural affinity between the names, so they blend seamlessly into a unit, underscoring the strength of the partnership.”

      “Let’s get started, then!  I have an interview for a magazine spread later this morning, so we’ll have to make maximum use of our thinking caps.”

      “Yes, this could take some time and it is best we begin now.  I shall ring for more tea.”

      “I’ll get coffee started and something over my succulent arse than air.”

      “P… pardon?”

      “I’ll get coffee started, then toss on some clothes.”

      “You said air.  That… that does not imply the wearing of pyjamas.”

      “Oh.  Yeah, I don’t wear them.  At least, not when I’m at home.  Sometimes I do when I’m traveling, if it’s possible that some studio aide is going to key their way into my hotel room with papers to sign or to wake me since I’ve slept through my alarm.”

      “You… you are currently naked?”

      “Uh… technically, yes.”

      “That… one does not sleep nude.”

      “This one does.”

      “That… it is positively debauched!”

      “The debauchery lets my naughty bits feel free, though, and I’m a staunch advocate of liberated bits.”

      “Are you referring to…”

      “Yes.  Yes, I am.  Free and feeling properly aired.”

      “Oh my…”

      “That’s what they all say.”

      “Who all say?”

      “Everyone.”

      “I do not understand.”

      “I can’t say I do either right now.  Would you feel better if got dressed?”

      “Yes.”

      “Ok, let me set down my phone and…”

      “Oh dear…”

      “Starting again.  Let me ring you back after I’ve put on clothes so you won’t have to listen to me being naked and taking steps to correct that fact.”

      “Much better.  I shall, in the meantime, attend to my tea.”

      “Very efficient use of time.  Talk to you soon, Mycroft.”

Greg terminated the call, then stared at the ceiling a few moments before laughing long and loud at the nonsense of the previous minutes.  What were they – twelve years old?  It felt like it sometimes, but… what was wrong with that?  Life was a string of adult responsibilities and obligations, so what was wrong with a spot, here and there, or pure childish fun?

Besides, with the parents descending, childish would be the name of the game.  Parents were notorious for seeing their adult children through the lens of times past, when they lacked the gray hair and wrinkles and their kid is grinning proudly to show off the empty space in their mouth from the tooth they just lost.  Mycroft might be terrified about the meeting, but _he’d_ met enough parents of members of the film crew or press or small fans to know how to manage.  Be genial, ask more questions about them than they asked of him, happily sign whatever they wanted him to sign and pose for every photo they suggested.  Make them feel like they were precisely as ‘important’ as he was, which was actually the case, though they had a hard time seeing that with stars in their eyes.

Of course, with Mycroft’s parents, it’d be a bit different, since… it was Mycroft’s parents.  He had to make a good impression, because… it’s what you did with the parents of the person in your life.  Not that ‘in your life’ was exactly how he should describe Mycroft, because that was a touch too… something or other… for their situation, given the phrase had a rather heavy layer of ‘meaning,’ at times.  Which was not this one.  This was not one of those times.  Other times were.  This one was far away from that collection.  And, now, he had to get far away from naked or Mycroft wouldn’t be able to play spies this morning, which was turning into one of his better mornings in recent memory…

__________

Mycroft gave the bell pull in his study a series of tugs with the proper pattern to signal he wanted tea and returned to his desk to sit and… sit.  Sitting was an enormously successful strategy at the moment.  His legs seemed slightly wobbly and it would not to do suffer a fall.  Especially since he was to host Gregory again and present him to Mummy and Father!  This was on par with the Apocalypse occurring during a supernova when there was a tea shortage in England!

And Gregory was naked!  Nude.  Air clad.  Garmented only in sunlight and soft breezes.  Not a single scrap of cloth daring to conceal his masculine splendor from the admiring gaze of the universe.  It was utterly scandalous!  To sleep in the embrace of soft cotton sheets, letting that embrace caress his skin as would a devoted and tender lover.

Oh my.  That was rather… impassioned.  Which was not, at all, the norm of the person currently sitting to ward off the potential impacts of wobbly legs.  Such a thing was for volatile creatures, like most of humanity, who allowed impulse and emotion to steer their course in life.  That did _not_ describe him.  Not that he lacked impulse and emotion, however, they were moderated by rational thinking, logic and, frankly, decorum.  But… naked.  He had spoken, at length, to a naked Gregory, with the subtle waft of Gregory’s manly scent perfuming the room, uninhibited by a barrier of fabric and buttons.

That was not decorous!  That was… given no one else resided in his skull but himself, _perhaps_ it was acceptable to admit… that it was somewhat pleasant a thought.  One might, for the purposes of analysis or debate, envision a morning where one brought a small tray of breakfast to a second party, who for the purposes of this mental exercise resembles, closely, Gregory, and one is gifted with the fluttering awake of warm brown eyes and the spicy perfume of exposed skin.  Inviting skin.  Skin that beckoned long, sensitive fingers to…

Great Ganymede’s Ghost!  What was happening to his mind?  Such salacious imaginings.  He was not a Mills & Boon writer!  His name was not Jackie Collins!  Some phantasm had bewitched his thoughts and beguiled them towards… areas.  Avenues.  Trajectories.  All of which had been illuminated by only the dimmest of streetlamps during his adult life.  Perhaps it was purple’s fault.  The new flowers in his bath were purple and he had taken quite a turn seeing them when he paused a moment for personal business.

Yes, that was surely the thing.  His relationship with purple was tumultuous at the best of times and for it to launch a strike when he was fatigued was the height of villainy, though the success of the assault must be recognized.  One respected a worthy opponent and purple had been one of his most ferocious adversaries over the years.  Sneaking through his defenses, now and again, with a seemingly affable hue, then plunging in the dagger, at other times, with a shocking display of flagrance.  There.  Mystery solved.  Purple had, once again, chosen the dagger and the impact was more profound and unexpected than usual.  Lawks!  How easy it was to see the problem, once one spared a moment to reapply the power of one’s rational mind.

Of course, when their conversation recommenced, there was no arguing the fact that Gregory would, once again, be naked, though the nudity would be camouflaged by the smoke and mirrors of his clothing.  _He_ would know, though.  It was a truth that could not be denied.  The nudity endured.  And… so, apparently, must he…


	22. Chapter 22

      “The past is a bastard.”

      “That’s not nice, since it’s not a tangible being capable of defending itself.”

      “Philip Anderson is a bastard.”

      “Better.  Stupid and incorrect, but at least it could exist in the realm of theoretical possibility.”

It was a measure of Greg’s exhaustion that the chip he tossed at Anderson only made it halfway when Anderson was sitting across from him at Greg’s kitchen table.

      “Ooh!  More chips for me!  I’m glad we stopped for something because I’m not sure I’ve eaten since yesterday.  Maybe I did, but it was so uninspiring that I’ve completely forgotten.”

Though Anderson did have to admit that his own punishing schedule was nothing to compared to that of the man currently looking like he’d just been exhumed from his grave.  The past couple of weeks were a meat grinder for his client and Greg’s professionalism meant he’d continued through it like a champion, always smiling, always cordial, always showing enthusiasm for what was going on, even if he was briefed on it just minutes before the interview or bit of filming.  And the hands reaching for him were both many and varied.  The last several days had been work for the program on his family history and what they’d negotiated, to free up time in other places, meant a grueling pace that had worn Greg down to the nub.  Time, perhaps, to lighten mood…

      “I did mean to ask, Greg, heard from your boyfriend lately?”

      “Fuck you.”

      “Not now, but I’ll let you know if I truly get desperate.  So, back to the boyfriend…”

      “Mycroft is _not_ my boyfriend!”

      “Notice I didn’t mention his name, but your brain goes right to him.”

      “Who else would it be, since your little joke is the only joke _your_ tiny brain is able to process and your ridiculous mouth is happy to toss it out at regular intervals.”

      “I’ve got loads of jokes!  After all, I have a copy of your CV.  In any case, are you ready for you meet-the-parents ordeal?  It doesn’t look like it, since you need a haircut, your skin is all saggy and pasty, your chip-throwing skills are decidedly subpar… you’re not making the proper presentation as a healthy mate for their beloved son.”

      “We’re not mates!  There was no mating.”

      “I did see _Penguins of Madagascar,_ you know, so now I can add uncreative to your list of failings.  I’ll have a supply of tissues and cloths on me at all times for parental tears of disappointment.”

Because the upcoming ordeal was doubling as a business meeting, so the studio could pay, and agents would in attendance, at least for part of the entertainment.

      “Please don’t remind me that you’ll be there along with Mycroft’s parents.  All I wanted was a quiet day or two to try and stop my brain from melting, but do I get that?  No.  First, I have to discuss business, which I really could do without, but will anyway because Mycroft will adore it.  Then, I get the joy of having to keep the performance going so I don’t humiliate Mycroft in front of his parents.  _Then_ , it’s right back into the thick of it until I fucking drop dead.”

Anderson gave himself a mental punch to the head hearing the honest frustration in Greg’s voice.  To him, this was a great source of amusement, but he’d sort of forgotten that it would be the opposite of restful for his friend, despite the pastoral country atmosphere.  Maybe he could distract the parents for awhile to give Greg, at the very least, a chance for a long walk or a longer nap.  The little village was supposed to be nice… invite the parents for a meal or a few drinks at the pub Greg mentioned to let some opportunity for relaxation flow in his client’s direction.  He could also ask to see Mycroft’s baby photos.  Every mum had a few of those on hand and that, matched with the inevitable cute stories, would keep them distracted for a few hours, at minimum.

      “I’ll do what I can, Greg, to see you’ve got some rest time, I promise.  Don’t forget, the old people love me.  I’ll bring them out for little tipple and story-sharing and you can curl up in a corner somewhere and sleep.”

      “I wonder if Mycroft has a basket by a fire somewhere that’s missing its dog.  I could do that.  I could be a happy hound napping in front of a warm fire, belly full of kibble, dreaming of chasing rabbits.  I could do that and like it, too.”

      “Is it the wrong time to mention I’ve been approached for you to star, so to speak, in a new Pixar film that is rather heavy on the hound-sleeping-in-baskets aesthetic?”

      “What?  Yes!  Yes, it’s the wrong ti… no, no I take that back.  Did they send a script?”

And Project Put Some Wind Back in Greg’s Sails gets underway. Fortunately, Pixar’s interest in Greg was not a lie, so if this led to some eagerness on his client’s part, his client’s agent, currently sitting and eating some surprisingly tasty fish and chips, wouldn’t have egg on his face.  Though, frankly, a plate of eggs wouldn’t be turned away right now.  He _really_ was hungry…

      “A very early draft.”

      “Let me take a look at it.  I’ve been interested in something like this for awhile.”

      “I know, that’s why I’ve been doing a lot of schmoozing with the right production companies to make that happen.”

      “It’s… my commitment wouldn’t happen soon, though, right?”

      “No, you’d have awhile before they’d need you.  Want me to say you’re thinking about it?”

      “Let me read through the script first.  But… if it looks good, I’ll definitely think about it.”

      “Alright, then.  Maybe that’s something you can talk to your boyfriend about.  Let him read the script and see what he thinks from a writer’s standpoint.”

      “I honestly don’t know if that’s a good or bad idea since… this would be a kids film?”

      “Hmmm… as much as any of them are now.  Enough for the adults to notice and enjoy, but lots for the kiddies, too.”

      “I’m not sure if Mycroft would find that insipid or not.”

      “That’s what conversation is for.  And, do take note that you didn’t have a hissy fit over me calling him your boyfriend.  Getting comfortable with the term, are you?”

      “Come closer so I can give you a solid knock.”

      “Nope. But I _will_ steal a few more chips since I suspect you’re too tired to defend your food.”

      “I can’t lie.  My knock would be more of a tap, and not a very vigorous one, at that.  We’ll need to stop for coffee before we catch the train.  It’s going to be a long night.”

      “Mycroft’s night owl thing is certainly a scheduling issue.  But, we’ve dealt with enough of those who work long hours, then want a bit of drinks time after to unwind.  Those days are long ones, too.”

      “True, but I usually nap for the last few hours and let you do all the talking.”

      “That’s my magic-working time.  Your big mouth is closed and I can navigate a somewhat boozy conversation with our counterparts to get all sorts of concessions and signatures on documents.”

      “My clever plan in a nutshell.”

      “I am greatly impressed by your cleverness.  And the new fish and chips shop Anthea told me about.  This really is good.”

      “You two are going to gain five thousand pounds between you, feeding each other’s food fetish.”

      “I am going to tell her that, so prepare to die, clever plan or not.  Boyfriend Mycroft or not, for that matter.  I don’t think even that will save you.”

      “Finish your food, you useless agent.  And don’t wake me up until it’s time to leave for the train.”

      “That is in precisely fifteen minutes.”

      “Nooooooooo….”

      “Forsake the coffee and you can nap once we’re on the train.  I’ll stand guard that you’re not stolen during the trip.”

      “Coffee after?”

      “As much as you can drink.”

      “Deal.”

      “That _is_ my talent.”

      “And making balloon animals.”

      “True.  I’ll never go hungry if I can travel the world doing children’s birthday parties.  I don’t worry about your career burning out, as long as the balloon manufacturers survive.”

      “Your old age is going to be a real joy.”

      “Your envy is sweet as sugar.”

      “That why you’ll have dentures?”

      “Probably.  But I’ll keep my mouth closed so they don’t fly out at a party and scare the kiddies.”

__________

      “Ooh, this _is_ a nice little village.  We have time to a quick pint?”

Greg looked about a moment and didn’t see either a driver or a likely getaway car, so couldn’t see why not.  Anderson had been true to his word and let him sleep like a very tired baby all the way here, so some reward should be forthcoming.

      “I think we do.  Come on, but…”

      “Yeah?”

      “Oh, nothing.  Just smile and carry on.”

Greg fixed his own smile on his face as he entered the familiar pub and wasn’t surprised that (a) a few eyebrows rose at the person who walked in behind him and (b) more than a few banknotes changed hands from whatever wager… what he’d be wearing, what train he’d take, or who knows what… had made its way through the pub regulars.  One of whom was the man behind the bar, fixing the newcomers with a knowing smile.

      “It’s Randolph Scott!  Good day to you, sir.  And with… not sure who you are.  Oh!  Virgil!  Who’s that bloke in the film you like?”

Three male heads turned towards the bartender, but only one must have been Virgil the film buff since only one response was offered.

      “Lee van Cleef?”

      “What!  No, you daft bastard.  That other movie you like.”

      “Orson Welles.”

      “I said skinny.”

      “He was fairly lean when he was a lad.”

      “Didn’t have a beard, though, so fuck off.  Rose you know who I mean, despite your husband being a bit of an idiot.”

      “That Reeves boy.”

Virgil the film buff’s wife got a snap-and-point of success after her husband got other less laudatory fingers offered to reward his performance, and the matter was considered settled.

      “Yes!  Hello, Mr. Keanu Reeves.  We’re honored to have you in our humble village.  And we’re all real, too!  None of that computer nonsense and Mr. Andersons for the likes of us.”

Greg made a ‘oh, this is so richly deserved’ face over his shoulder at Anderson, who groaned softly at the avalanche to come.

      “Not Keanu, my dear fellow, but an _actual_ Mr. Anderson to come stir up a load of bother.  I am pleased to introduce to all of you Mr. Philip Anderson, my agent.”

The expected nods and oh-ho’s landed with an audible thump right on Anderson’s head.  It was now guaranteed that every time he entered this fine establishment, he’d be met with a terrible, but terribly familiar, Hugo Weaving impersonation as a greeting.  Just lovely.

      “It’s a special day, then!  Not that it wins you as much as a sausage, but we’re happy nonetheless.  Have a seat, gentlemen.  Normal pint of lager for you, Mr. Scott?  What about your AI-created friend?”

      “Same.”

Greg grinned widely at Anderson’s loud sigh and steered them towards and empty table a little closer to the door than he usually enjoyed.

      “Thanks, Greg.  I could have remained splendidly anonymous.”

      “If I don’t get to, you don’t get to.  Besides, nobody vomited seeing your appalling appearance, so it’s a better entrance at a pub than you’ve had in years.”

      “That’s not too far from the truth, unfortunately.  I stopped in to an old favorite for a quick one the other day and two women I used to… know… were there, sitting at a table together.”

      “And why am I just finding out about this now?”

      “Because nothing more happened, that I have details about, than I got glared right back out the way I came in.  I like to think it spawned a latent-jealousy, tooth-and-talon war, but I’m not even that self-deluded.”

      “If anyone asks, though, I’ll say the battle leveled the fucking place and the riot team had to be called in.”

      “You’re a true friend, Greg.  Ooh, here’s ours.”

Anderson smiled at the young woman delivering their drinks with a touch of rakish hope in his eyes and honestly didn’t know if the ‘what’s this?’ narrowing of _her_ eyes was a good or bad thing.  Greg’s ‘charming’ grin didn’t make things any clearer, either.

      “As I live and breathe!  The beau… the efficient, industrious and highly-competent Ginnie!  I am extremely relieved you are serving us, as I am now assured we will enjoy an excellent beer-quaffing experience.”

      “You’ve got crud in your eyes.”

      “Shit!  Do I?  Anderson, do you think you could have said something?”

While Greg frantically dug in the corners of his eyes, for what reason Anderson didn’t know but suspected circled around wanting to look nice for his not-boyfriend, Anderson turned up the shine of his own smile, then took a sip of his surprisingly-good lager.

      “Very nice.  Very nice indeed… so, tell me, Ginnie, was it?  Ever thought about working in the entertainment industry?  I _am_ a talent representative, you know.”

      “Is _he_ an example of your credentials?”

She was pointing at Greg.  Who was… Greg was checking the status of his teeth in his pint glass.  Bloody wonderful.

      “No.  I lost a bet and he was the penalty.”

      “Gamblers can’t be trusted.”

      “I inherited him from his former agent who died a tragic death.”

      “Liars can’t be trusted, either.”

      “I’ve known him since his hair was brown and nobody else could be arsed to manage his affairs.”

      “Leave your card.  Oh, and the car is on the way.  Mrs. Hudson said to brace for impact.”

Greg paused checking his appearance, as best he could in his glass, and shared a look with Ginnie that confirmed she wasn’t joking.

      “Ok.  Got any of those protectors the athletes use to guard their procreative equipment from threats?”

      “You’ve got two hands.  Put them to good use.”

      “Fair.  Thank you, Madam Ginnie for your compassion and support.”

A flick of foam from his beer onto Anderson’s face earned Greg the expected curse, but pulled his agent’s attention back to him and away from the figure of the female walking back towards the bar.

      “She catches you ogling like that and you won’t have eyes left in your head.”

      “It’s not ogling if you legitimately respect the person you’re ogling.”

      “You just met her.”

      “Your point being?”

      “She’d eat you up and spit you out.”

      “Again, your point being?”

      “Drink.  Drink all of that and forty more.”

      “Mycroft keep beer in the house?”

      “Probably.  You’re not getting pissed, though.  We’ve got business to discuss.”

      “ _And_ you want me ready to hurl myself in front of you to protect your body and my income from whatever surprises we might meet while we’re there.”

      “That may factor into things, yes.”

      “Just as long as you don’t expect me to use my two hands to protect your wee limp willie.”

      “I’ll manage that part.  It’s wee enough that I can just use one hand and leave the other free to hold the very cold and refreshing Coke that I _do_ know Mycroft keeps in the house.”

      “We have a plan. “

      “Which is leagues farther than we usually are at this point.”

      “Sad, but true.”

__________

Anderson had ridden in enough luxurious, chauffer-driven cars that he wasn’t impressed by the one sent to collect them, but he did have to admit to being highly impressed by the chauffer, himself, especially knowing the man’s history.  You could see it, though.  Very chauffer-like in his demeanor, but with a distinct gleam in his eye that said there was a lot more lurking below the surface.  This was a film waiting to be made… and he knew the people who’d want to do it.

      “Anderson, you still with me?”

      “What?  Yeah, just thinking.”

      “That’s not your strong suit, so stop.  Ok, we’re almost there, so remember what I told you.”

      “Thinking is not my strong suit.”

      “Besides that.”

      “I won’t be pulling the lovely Ginnie and she’d blind me if I did.”

      “Still not there.”

      “My idea sack is empty.”

      “Don’t be a prat.”

      “I’m not!  The sack is utterly bereft of ideas!  Naught in there but a few wisps of lint and one of those threads that never seems to match the rest of the stitching of your pocket or handbag or whatever else you’re pulling it from.”

      “Don’t be a prat _to Mycroft_.”

      “I don’t plan to.”

      “Yeah, but… pay attention, alright?  It’s unhappily possible to be a prat without thinking first, even if you regret it later.  Just… try.”

That had been another conversation he’d had with his client or, rather, a series of them, which focused on what to expect and not to expect and how to respond accordingly.  Greg scarcely put that much effort and attention into preparing for a film role!  It said a lot, a very lot, about how determined his friend was that Mycroft not be distressed or hurt.  The big question was did the high level of determination still fall in the ‘friends’ range of the scale or did it take a step into a new category altogether?  It was going to be the height of entertainment to gather evidence to investigate this particular question.

Shit.  Now he sounded like Sherlock.  Apparently, being visited by the great blackbird at all hours for whatever nonsense the detective thought important had side effects.  It was definitely time to meet that John Watson for a bit of a ‘keep your bloody partner on a leash you lazy sod’ discussion.  Waking up with Sherlock sitting on the foot of the bed because he wasn’t satisfied with the ‘title’ he’d been given for the film credits was one horror too many in his life, which was already filled with them from years working in the industry famous for horrors of all shapes and sorts…

__________

Greg knew he shouldn’t feel worried entering Mycroft’s house, but that didn’t stop him pausing at the threshold and taking a deep breath.  One that came out as a long, shuddery exhalation when he got a look inside at the new receiving line waiting to say hello.

      “There he is!”

Female.  Older.  Pleasantly plump.  Large aquamarine pendant around neck.  About to explode with excitement.  Wearing a raincoat.  The first five said hello Mrs. Holmes, but the last one… well, it was Mycroft’s mum, so anything was possible.  Turn intensity of grin to maximum and radiate every lumen of film-star energy possible.  Mycroft’s mother deserved the full package.

      “And you must be Mrs. Holmes.  It’s wonderful to meet you.”

Step forward, raise her hand for a kiss, hold it a moment while she giggles happily, then step back so you don’t look handsy and creepy.

      “He touched me!  Oh dear… I feel faint.”

      “Your pallor has not paled in the slightest.”

Tall, thin, aristocratic-looking man, wearing gold-rimmed specs and bow tie.  Not a leap of logic to confirm this identity.  The affectionate smack on the arm from Mycoft’s mum was the confirmatory nod.

      “Oh hush, Bertie.   Don’t think I didn’t see your lip wibble when he walked through the door.”

      “There was no wibble.”

      “I’ve got thirty years of experience watching for your wibble and I know it better than my dress size.”

      “Your dress size has not altered in a decade, Dorothy, so I fail to see the relevance of the comparison.”

 Greg smiled at Mycroft who was standing on the sidelines, pinching the bridge of his nose, and decided that getting a look at the parental units was a good thing.  A very good thing, in point of fact.

      “It’s highly relevant and you know it, you awful man.”

Yes, she just pinched her husband’s cheek.  Now, waiting for… yep.  There’s Mycroft’s particular shade of rosy color on the man’s face.  Genetics at work… this was textbook material.

      “Mummy, do stop assaulting Father.  We have guests.”

      “I will not!  Who could resist that handsome face?  It just begs for a little pinch.”

This next pinch was deftly sidestepped by Mycroft’s father, who darted behind his son, making Mycroft the recipient of his mother’s fingery love.

      “There.  Both my handsome men get a little pinch.  I’ll have to get to know these other two better before they get one, but I suspect it won’t take too long.  Especially…”

Mycroft and his father both leapt to stop the raincoat removal, but were a tad too late, something that made Anderson burst out with laughter.

      “… since I wore my shirt for the occasion!”

Which was emblazoned with Greg’s screen-printed face, with his customary sunglasses slung low on his nose so he could give sexy eyes to the person looking back at him.  Who, at this moment, was Greg himself.

      “I thought you could sign it for me, lad, to make it extra-special.  All the ladies are already green with envy of my having this, which I got from one of those sites that sell snaps and shirts and posters and whatnot, but with your signature on it… oh, I’ll be queen for a day, won’t I?”

Knowing there was zero chance she’d take it off later for him to sign, Greg waggled his fingers for Anderson to hand him a pen, of which the agent always had a ready supply for precisely this sort of thing, and made  grand show of signing in large, bold letters, while both male Holmes’s had a small shaky hands fit from the sight of a shirt, even one as ridiculous as this one, being defiled by indelible black ink.

      “Perfect!  Isn’t it simply perfect, Bertie?”

      “No.”

      “Pfft.  These two old girls have never looked so good.”

Greg laughed at the plumping of motherly breasts, as well as the pained groans from the rest of her family.

      “Always glad to make fan happy, Mrs. Holmes.  And, Mr. Holmes, very good to meet you, too, sir.  Let me say thank you, too, for doing the important work of a librarian.  The one I knew when I was a lad absolutely inspired a lot of my love for reading, so I know how much of what you do can touch the lives of young readers.  Older ones, as well.”

Notice, also, that no hand is being extended to shake, which seems to be very much to your liking, if the relaxation of the sudden, slight tensing of your muscles is to be believed.

      “Thank you.  The work _is_ most vital for a literate community.”

      “That it is.  Oh, and may I introduce my agent, Philip Anderson?  He’s really the one who’s made my career what it is, since I couldn’t successfully negotiate giving a juicy steak to a hungry dog.”

Anderson waved slightly and felt somewhat proud that Mycroft’s mother seemed nearly as excited to meet him as his client.

      “A real agent!  Oh, I bet you have the stories to tell, don’t you, dear?  Well, I want to hear all of them, every single one.  This is going to be such fun!  I told you, Mycroft… not a bit of your predicted hellfire raining from the sky or agonized wails of tormented angels.  Silly boy…”

      “Father, mother requires tea.  Or a medicinal tisane.”

      “False.  When your mother desires tea, her nose wrinkles in a precise way that is often accompanied by a nearly-inaudible single smack of her lips.”

      “I was not being literal Father.  I was attempting to, in a subtle manner, request you take her somewhere soothing so she bothers Gregory no further.”

      “Then you should have spoken plainly.  I cannot follow your argument when you take to flights of fancy, Mycroft.”

      “Very well, Mummy requires a calming beverage.  Kindly make that happen.”

      “What beverage do you suggest?”

      “Hmmm… that is a rather good question.  Mummy cannot abide chamomile tea, which is often recommended for such a thing.”

      “What is your opinion on peppermint?”

      “It _is_ touted as relaxing, however, the aroma is… today is not a day for peppermint.”

      “Agreed.  I am already put off by the level of ozone to add insult to injury.”

      “Lemon balm?”

      “I am not, at present, opposed to a gentle citrus scent.”

      “Nor am I.  Mummy, you are having a cup of lemon balm tea to soothe your overly-agitated humors.”

Greg wasn’t sure what made him happier – the look of adoring pride on Mycroft’s mother’s face as she listened to the debate or the knowledge that no matter what other tribulations life had thrown at Mycroft, he’d had a safe, understanding and loving family at home to help him through it.

      “Lemon balm, you say, my dear son?  Well, as long as there’s a nice bit of shortbread to go with it, _I’d_ say that’s a winner!  I’m sure Martha has a little something for these poor travelers, too, so I’ll tell her to send it out while I’m having my tea and stopping your dad from tearing this shirt off my voluptuous body.”

Mycroft’s arm raised to point towards the kitchen at a speed which frightened the air it cut through and it remained in position, while his father escorted his grinning mother in the direction of the point.

      “I do apologize, Gregory.  We tried to hide that dreadful garment from your eyes, but… well, hiding the person _wearing_ the garment was not an option, so our strategy was flawed from the onset.”

      “It’s not a problem, Mycroft.  Believe me, that is far more common that you might imagine, and I don’t mind doing it.  At least that was actually an officially licensed shirt and not one of the ones some bloke knocks off from home to make a quick bit of cash.”

      “Father, apparently, insisted on the legality of the issue.  He is a staunch supporter of the enforcement of licensing and copyright laws.”

      “I would expect nothing less.”

Given he’s a librarian and, undoubtedly, you in several decades.

      “And, Mr. Anderson, it is good you were able to accompany Gregory today.  Anthea is most looking forward to discussing certain matters with you and I believe she said there were new details for my perusal which, I must admit, have me somewhat intrigued.”

Anderson gave the soft-sided valise in his hand a little jiggle and crossed his mental fingers that the new details would meet with Mycroft’s approval.  All small things, in the grand scheme, but the fewer bumps in the road, the better.

      “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes, I’ve long admired your writing.  And I do have some things for you to look over that I hope will meet with your approval.  The studio is anxious to get this underway and I have some preliminary sketches for you to look through, as well as a few of my own notes from a couple of meetings about what they’re hoping for in aesthetic for the film.  Anthea will be here later today, right?”

      “Yes, she had a family matter to attend to, then she will be joining us.  I have no idea why is wasting her time in such a fashion, since it is a birthday party for a cousin she absolutely despises, however… I have forsaken any hope of understanding the arbitrary rules governing obligations in most families.  A random happenstance of birth should not chain you irrevocably to those sharing your genes unless you personally choose to undertake the responsibility.”

Knowing his own mother would walk, if she had to, from the cottage by the sea he’d bought his parents all the way to London to grab him by the ear and drag him to whatever family this or that was going on, Anderson had a great deal of sympathy for Mycroft’s point of view.

      “I know a lot of people who would agree with you, unfortunately, none of them are my mother, so the chains bind me and bind tightly.”

Mycroft nodded solemnly and Anderson saw even more clearly the truth of Greg’s warnings.  It would be very easy to think you were having a laugh with Mycroft, or his dad, and them not seeing what you were doing in the slightest.

      “Perhaps… yes, I shall provide you with a copy of the agreement I scripted and had Mummy sign that outlines the acceptable parameters of such things.  It has been most useful, when she forgets a clause, that I have written evidence to prove my point.”

Very, very easy to have your signals missed and the consequences would _not_ be happy ones…

      “I’d appreciate that.  I have a true and undying appreciation for a well-crafted contract.”

      “Ah yes… part and parcel of your trade.  You will certainly appreciate mine, then, as I had my solicitor script certain elements, however, Mummy has found rather creative ways to interpret and circumvent various paragraphs.  I wonder, now, if you might be able to provide a fresh perspective to help close certain loopholes, given your familiarity with the highly-devious individuals in your line of work.”

Still perfectly serious and Anderson couldn’t help but notice that Greg’s fond smile was very reminiscent of Mycroft’s mother’s when she was listening to her son and husband analyze the tea situation.  Greg Lestrade, actor extraordinaire, was a goner in all but his own stupid self realizing it.

      “I look forward to it.  Someplace I can set this all down so I can get Greg cleaned up and presentable for business?”

      “Gregory appears suitably cleansed and groomed for that purpose.”

      “Have you smelled him?”

      “Oh.  No, I admit I have not.  Should I?”

      “Not if you value your nose.”

      “Gregory, why are you olfactorily displeasing?”

Something that had Mycroft highly curious and, at the same time, highly repelled as he had just dodged the peppermint bullet and was not prepared for a second, more profound, threat to his nasal epithelium.

      “I’m not.  Anderson is being a bastard because he finds it amusing.”

      “I understand.  Much like my brother.”

      “Who Anderson wants to talk to you about, actually.  Sherlock has befriended him.”

      “Oh dear, that _can_ be somewhat a harrowing experience.”

Anderson was relieved that his pain was both seen and openly acknowledged.  Actually, as he thought about it, if there was one person skilled in thwarting Sherlock’s lunacy, it would be the older brother who surely had a lifetime of thwarting securely under his belt.

      “It is.  Maybe you can help _me_ script my own contract to put some chains on him to stop him breaking into my house at all hours.”

Both Greg and Anderson waited politely as Mycroft considered the proposal, which he did will all due gravity.

      “It shall likely be a futile attempt, as Sherlocks holds little as important as his own wants, including legal documents, however, I shall gladly throw my proverbial shoulder to the task.  It might, at the very least, give him pause before committing a truly dastardly violation of your privacy.”

      “He’s already eaten my take-way and stolen a pair of my underpants, claiming he needed them for an experiment.”

      “That… I hate to inform you, Mr. Anderson, but those do not, in any manner, qualify as dastardly violations on the Sherlock scale of mayhem and botheration.”

      “Wonderful.  Then I welcome every spot of help you can provide and, further, will pay handsomely for useful blackmail information that I can place in my ‘break glass in case of mayhem and botheration’ stockpile of weaponry.”

      “An excellent idea!  Sherlock can often be made more amenable to basic rules of civility if there are clear and personally-imperiling reasons for him to do so.  My… already our time together is bustling with activity.  I feel most energized, and we have scarcely begun!”

Look at you, Mr. Randolph Scott… just go and kiss the man, Greg.  You’re so puffed up with pride and adoration it’s disgusting.  And that’s not envy talking since you have someone to proud of and adore.  Ok, maybe a small amount of envy.  As big as a mote of dust.  Not even as big as that, actually.

This was going to be a long two days…


	23. Chapter 23

Mycroft’s desk was littered with sketches of a roughly drawn Diogenes Bell, wearing a variety of clothes and accessories that represented the first bit of the night’s actual business and it was going about as well as one could predict, given the cast of characters that was assembled to look at them.

      “Ooh… this is a brilliant thing… Bertie!  Look at that one.  Looks just like your cousin Nigel.”

      “His name is not Nigel.”

      “It bloody well is to me.  You don’t know him, Greg, but he’s… well, if you had to put someone in an advert to represent the perfect snooty Englishman, it’d be him.  His real name is Jonathan Delbert Barnes, but I call him Nigel N. Nigel-Nigel, and to his face, too!  His former wife agrees with me, don’t think she doesn’t.  We still have lunch now and again to chat about things and her opinion hasn’t swayed one bit since she left him for a nice fellow who owns a business selling fans and lamps.  Nice ones, too.  We bought one just last month and Bertie says it has the precise level of lumens or lux or whatever that he likes for reading in bed.”

Anthea and Anderson shared a look and Anderson was 85% certain it was to confirm the fact that they were watching the future of a Mr. Greg Lestrade and Mr. Mycroft Holmes after they’d been together for a number of years that was terrifying to contemplate.  However, since Anderson hadn’t had that particular conversation with his counterpart, he had to hedge his bets with a 15% holdout and avoid bankruptcy if Greg was right and he was a confirmed loony.

      “Mummy, Gregory does not need to hear your daytime telly fantasies about members of the family.”

      “Why not?  They’re clever and funny.”

This new look ratcheted Anderson’s confidence up to 90%.  Time to form an official alliance to either move this forward or nip it in the bud because his and Anthea’s lives did not need the extra burden of dancing around two bumbleheads who were being utterly clueless about the fact they had something or other brewing.  Anthea nearly spilled her martini seeing Mycroft pull his desk chair next to Greg with, what he suspected, was a clear violation of the writer’s normal personal-space boundaries.  That meant something!  Even someone as jaded and cynical as him could see that.

      “Only to you.  Now, we are here to conduct essential business and it was only on the promise of your good behavior that you were allowed to attend.  Kindly keep that in mind.”

      “First, Mr. Firstborn, I go where I want.  Second, you need the opinion of a member of the film-going public, don’t you?  Get some insight into what the rank and file like me are going to want?  Well, I can tell you one thing, we don’t want Cousin Nigel, that’s for certain.  There’s enough of them in films with utility poles up their bums that we don’t need another.  Ooh!  That’s… what do they call it… consulting!  Bertie, how much should I charge our son for consulting on his film?”

      “Hmmmm… I am not aware of the current rates, however, Mr. Anderson likely has a suitable figure to offer.”

      “Find out and then we’ll double it, because it should be a family price, not what they toss out to anyone off the street they drag in for a chat.”

      “You _are_ far more familiar with the history of the character, my dear, as well as Mr. Lestrade’s posture and attributes than a randomly-chosen member of the public.  That _should_ equate to a larger fee.”

      “Yes!  Mycroft, you’re paying me at least double whatever that nice Mr. Anderson tells you to pay and I won’t hear any different.  Neither will your dad.”

Anderson considered not throwing petrol on the fire, then realized that wouldn’t be any fun at all, so bugger being the adult in the room.

      “We pay consultants one billion quid, Mrs. Holmes.”

      “Hurray!  Bertie can finally have a new rug for his little reading room.  We saw one that would work but it was… whoosh, what people charge for a bit of thread that some machine’s cobbled together.  Not even a handmade rug and they wanted two-hundred pounds!  Are they mad?  I think so, and I don’t say that lightly.”

      “Father…”

      “Your mother is correct, Mycroft, that it was a highly suitable specimen.  The pile was uniform to a markedly precise degree and there was not a whiff of lanolin to be noted, which is acceptable for clothing, but not on objects over which one must tread on a daily basis.”

      “We’ve got two billion pounds in our pocket, Bertie dear, so you can have your rug and maybe we see you with some new draperies, too.  You said the ones in there were starting to fold funny.”

      “The lines of the folds are aesthetically illogical.”

      “There you have it.  Not a crumb of logic, Mycroft… you put that two billion quid in my purse before we leave or I’ll know the reason why.”

      “It would be because I do not have that sum to my name, Mother, and, further, you are an hysteric.”

      “A rich one, though.  Two billion… Greg, that’s about your level of rich, isn’t it?  You can tell me what people do with all that cash.  I think I’d run out of ideas once we had the house tidied up and maybe saw Bertie with a new pair of shoes.  Love, how long do we have until you need new shoes?”

      “Barring unforeseen calamity, I am seven weeks from a scheduled shoe purchase.”

      “Is that the buying date or the start shopping date?”

      “The purchase date.”

      “We need to get on with it, then!  You know it takes at least four of those weeks, if all goes well, to find a pair you like!”

      “True… I had hoped to broach the issue within five days, however, decided to postpone a further two in light of our current activity.”

      “Mycroft, you’ve upset your dad’s shoe schedule.  And you owe us two billion quid.  I think putting a dagger right in Cousin Nigel’s eye is just the thing to get back in our good graces.”

      “I… I have utterly lost the purpose of this conversation.”

      “It was not particularly convoluted, son, even for your mother.”

      “It meandered worse than a rebellious river!”

Greg had no idea how the pencil found its way into his hand, nor how it started patting _Mycroft’s_ hand in what was the most now-now gesture a person could make without using any skin to emphasize the now-nowing.  Maybe a few words of support, too, for the man who was currently the ball in his parent’s game of verbal ping pong.

      “I think your mum is just having bit of a lark, Mycroft.  I recognize it because I do the same myself, now and again, and befuddle that beardy one over there into throwing a chip, or rock, at me.”

There, that was some of the confusion leaching away from Mycroft’s eyes, earning Greg’s brain a hearty congratulations for a job well done by its fleshy host.

      “Ah, I see.  Thank you, Gregory.  Mummy _is_ known for using situations to her advantage to promote what she views as humor.  Father, to his great discredit, encourages her far too often and with shameful enthusiasm.”

Both Anderson and Anthea took long swigs of their drinks both to put more alcohol in their blood and to stop themselves from actually throwing a chip or rock at Greg’s head to move the dense thing within kissing range of the man he was successfully comforting with an ease that only the ridiculously-besotted or saints were able to muster.

      “It’s parents, Mycroft.  We _know_ how they are.”

Said with a wink Mycroft didn’t see, but Mycroft’s parents did, which amused his mother and perplexed his father to no small degree.

      “True.  It is heartening that you share my perspective on the topic.”

      “Glad it helps.  But, if we meander back to the beginning, I have to agree with your mum, that this look for Bell is slightly off the mark.  The man’s English, but not one to wear Union Jack underpants and pine for the lost empire.”

Which was a reason Anderson had asked for a variety of sketches be produced, even those that would never be considered by the studio.  Mycroft would get his vetoes and, likely, be more amenable to compromise for the final look given his input had been taken seriously along the way.  Yes, it was a bit underhanded, but wasn’t, at all, outside the limits of what was always done for a film.  You typically had a large number of opinions, of greater and lesser influence, that had to be handled delicately so everything kept moving forward.

      “That is very true.  I had already relegated it to the unsatisfactory list before someone who shall remain nameless, that is you, Mummy, decided to turn this matter into an example of music hall vaudeville.”

Nobody could notice the small series of taps Mycroft’s mother gave her husband’s leg, but if they had, they still wouldn’t have understood that it signaled they had something to talk about that he may not have noticed.  Which, to her mind, was that her little boy was chatting!  He was sitting next to someone and actually chatting, not giving his usual clipped and perfunctory answers to distinct questions.  He was good with family, the staff here in the house, his agent and Sherlock’s young man and could, at least, mill about in the village without too much upset, but that was the extent of it.  And it had taken a lifetime to get to this point!  But here he was, far more relaxed than she ever would have imagined and, even, being affable, for him, to Greg’s agent.  It was a dream come true and she’d make certain her husband was aware of it because if Mycroft suddenly caught a case of the wigglies and tried to scurry into his shell, it would take the both of them, and a large piece of machinery, to drag him back out.

      “Vaudeville, you say.  Want me to do a striptease, son?  Actually, it could be an audition, since there’s a real agent sitting right there who could sign me to my fame and fortune on the spot!”

      “No.”

      “You’re a cruel boy, Mycroft Holmes.”

      “Sherlock has already made himself quite the nuisance to Mr. Anderson and I shall not have you exacerbate the situation.”

      “Sherlock?  Why in the world would he… is he finally going start his music career!  Oh, I’ve hoped for so, so long…”

Greg and Anderson shared a look, that shifted to draw Anthea into their circle, though she only shook her head in response, knowing the Holmes family would do a smashing job of filling in all the details without being asked.

      “Dorothy, Sherlock has made it clear that he will not pursue his violin professionally.”

      “He should!  Our son is a musical genius, Albert Holmes, and everybody should be able to enjoy it.  And it’d bring in more money than his detecting does.  He could still do that as side work, in any case.  Do a concert or record a few songs for an album part of the week and race about catching criminals the rest of the time.”

      “Your personal views on the matter, my dear, do not impact his decision.”

      “They would if you’d throw in your support, you evil man.”

      “Sherlock’s talents for observation and logic are easily as advanced as his talents for music, therefore, either choice is an appropriate use of his skills.”

Seeing a familiar disagreement rearing up, Mycroft decided that stepping in would save a great deal of time and, further, wear and tear on Gregory’s representative who would be badgered and battered endlessly if his mother thought it would gain something to her advantage on the Sherlock front.

      “Mummy, Sherlock is pursuing his interests in the way that… well, he is _willing_ to pursue them and we are all aware how difficult it was for him to find even this path in life.  I suspect we should best let the proverbial sleeping dogs lie and remind ourselves how few worries we have for him compared to years ago when… when they were both plentiful and agonizing.”

The rude noise with which Mycroft was rewarded was both expected and pointed away from him to avoid any possible maternal spittle landing on him and sending the day cleanly into the rubbish.

      “An articulate and concise riposte.  For your edification, Sherlock has approached Mr. Anderson about a consulting position on the film, given Sherlock has modeled his career on that of Diogenes Bell and has been most successful at his craft.”

      “Oh.  Well, that’s not nearly as exciting as him doing something with his music, but it’s not the worst thing he could have done.  You let me know, Philip, if he’s being too much of a bother, though, and I’ll have a word with him.  Sherlock is a dog with a bone when he’s excited about something and needs a quick bop on the nose with a newspaper and little chew on his squeaky toy to settle down.”

Anderson committed himself to buying a squeaky toy as soon as they got back to London and putting it to use whenever Sherlock perpetrated one of his home invasions.  And, he could say it was mother-sanctioned, which would truly make the berk froth at the mouth.

      “I will, Mrs. Holmes, thank you.”

      “So polite.  Now, Mycroft, which of these sketches do you actually like, so we can move on to other things?”

      “First, Mummy, you and Father are not part of the remainder of our discussions.”

      “Yes we are.  What’s second?”

      “The second is dependent on the first, so… I am at a loss.  Gregory?”

Anderson, Anthea, Mycroft’s mother and to a growing degree, Mycroft’s father noted the clean lob of the ball over to Greg in what was clearly a Wimbledon-quality doubles team on the conversation front.

      “Uh… ok.  Here’s a question.  Am _I_ actually needed for the remainder of our discussions?”

      “Hmmm… I had not considered it, but as this specific discussion of Bell would be concluded, for now, I suppose not.”

      “Then how about I suggest this.  I’ll escort your mum for a nice chat and cocktail session, which I know is far too early for you, personally, to consider, but we’ll enjoy it, and your dad can provide their side of whatever might be needed for whatever discussions you’re going to delve into.  How does that sound?”

This series of taps on Mycroft’s father’s leg were more emphatic than the first and alerted the man that his wife was about to burst from some observation that would erupt at the earliest possible opportunity.  However, since Lestrade had suggested a prudent strategy for effectively continuing this meeting, he would not excuse himself to inquire at the moment.  The addition of three distinct slash motions at the end of the message would have indicated a more imminent need to hear his wife’s information and since that had not occurred, this was, by far, the more efficient use of time and his son might benefit from knowing the results of his assessment.

      “I, for one, find Mr. Lestrade’s proposition promising for continuing these discussions in a successful fashion.  Mycroft?  Do you concur?”

Mycroft took a moment to study Greg’s expression and was not entirely certain what he saw there, which confused him mightily since he concurrently _liked_ what he saw there.  He was never one to make decisions on the vaunted ‘gut feeling,’ but found himself sensing on some instinctual level that this was the proper way to move forward.  Thickly layering on _another_ level of confusion that would have to be processed at a later time.

      “I do, Father.  Gregory, Mummy, make free use of the house and the amenities it provides.”

Rather than remind her son that she would do that, in any case, Mrs. Dorothy Holmes gave her husband an acceptably-dry peck on his cheek and motioned Greg to lead on towards the liquor.  This was actually the perfect thing, in her opinion.  And not only because she was going to have cocktails with Greg Lestrade!  She was going to have cocktails with someone who had a feel for her son and who her son actually responded to in a way that was… oh, it was something she’d always hoped to see.  The question was whether Greg was only looking on this as a short-term thing or did he have his eyes on something longer.  She had her fingers crossed for longer, but it would hurt to cross the toes, too.  She’d cross her eyes for a third support, but walking with crossed toes was already going to be hard enough without being able to see where she was walking…

___________

      “Oh, I do love this room.  Mycroft doesn’t see it much during the day, but his dad and I like to sit in here while he’s sleeping and read or listen to something on the radio.  It’s a nice break from the telly… really restful, which is one of the reasons we like coming to visit our son.  At home, it’s busier, which is nice, but sometimes it’s a bit much.  And Bertie does enjoy it, with the flowers and knick knacks to browse through in the village shops and others nearby.  Keeps him occupied with things he likes, tidying the garden, fixing bibs and bobs we find that he takes an interest in.  He’s good with fixing things.  Not like the plumbing or patching a wall, but small, fiddly, detailed things.  They can keep him happy for days!  I have to remind him to go to work, he’s so focused on getting this or that just right.”

Greg grinned and marveled at how cozily Mycroft’s pea fit into his father’s pod.

      “Let me guess, Mycroft will give him a hand if you find something intricate and interesting, but in need of a bit of repair to make like new.”

      “Yes!  Sometimes it takes a nudge, though, if it’s a touch too dirty.  Bertie’s better with that than Mycroft, but once his dad has it cleaned up a little, they’ll both be there, magnifying glasses in hand, rummaging through Bertie’s toolkit… he always brings it with him, dear man that he is… it warms my heart to see them together.  Warms it up like bread in the toaster.”

Pouring two of whatever was in the decanter he’d held up and gotten the nod for, Greg took a moment to imagine that scene and… his toaster had its own slices of bread popped in to toast up warm and brown.  Something which his face whispered softly to the world, but loud enough for the woman in the room with him to hear as clear as a bell.

      “I wanted to say, Greg… it’s wonderful you support Mycroft like you do.  You have a way with him that’s rare, though I’ve always wished that wasn’t the case.  It being so rare, I mean.”

Greg handed over one of the drinks in his hands and waited until Mycroft’s mother had taken a seat before following suit.

      “He’s had a rough go of it, hasn’t he?”

      “I wish I could say no, but it’d be a lie.  Not as bad as some, mind you, because he’s always kept to himself and… well, nasty little kids, and adults, too, like an easy target and he’s done a good job of not being that.  But, that’s not always been enough.  I’m surprised my heart still works, it’s broken so many times seeing him hurt.  As much as I hate having him so far from us, I was glad he found this house.  It’s a good place for him.  All the things he loves and people who treat him properly.  He’s been happier here than I’ve ever seen him, even though… it’s a lonely life.  He does like his solitude, don’t get me wrong, one of those introverts you hear about and it’s all true!  But… he could do with a real friend or two in his life.  Molly and Martha and Charles are close, and Anthea is closer… oh, we worried so much when her father died that Mycroft wouldn’t warm to her as he did her dad, but it worked!  But, he really doesn’t have anyone that I’d call a friend.  Acquaintances, people he’s cordial with, but not someone who’s got that special bond that you only have with a friend.”

      “If it’s not rude to ask… does his father?”

      “Oh, you’re a smart one.  I knew you were a smart one and I’m proven right!  Bertie has two friends… maybe one and a half, since George moved to Canada to help his daughter with her twin boys after her husband passed, god rest his soul.  But Theodore is still close by and… well, he’s another one on Mycroft and Bertie’s wavelength.  They do those volunteer at archaeological dig days and play chess and the like.  They’ve known each other for easily twenty years.  And there’s this new fellow, Malcolm, who came to our area five or so years ago, but he’s at the library almost every day and Bertie’s started to have a bit of brandy at the pub with him now and again.  That’s… well, for my husband, that’s a very big step.  They talk books but, also, flowers, which Teddie isn’t as interested in.  Between those two, Bertie has a few nights out a week, easily, and that’s… well, I’m so glad for it, I could burst!”

And she looked burst-ready, too.  In truth, he would be, too, if the person in his life had a few people to spend time with, especially if that person in his life was the type for whom finding those few people to connect with was brutally hard.

      “That’s good to hear. Everyone can use a little time away from home to relax with friends.  Can I ask where you two met?”

      “At school.  He was a year ahead of me.  Didn’t really talk to him, but I knew who he was.  He… well, you know how it is.”

      “He was different.”

      “Yeah.  It’s a horrible, horrible thing, it really is.  They’re pointed out, laughed at behind their backs or to their faces, teased… or worse.”

      “I really can’t imagine going through that.  I don’t what I’d do if that was me.”

      “Probably just the best you could; it’s all anyone can do.  His parents did try and get him into a nice public school, but they couldn’t afford it and nobody was offering any help to make it happen.  I don’t think they wanted a boy like him either!  Evil toffs… but, the low-class berks we went to school with were just as evil, so I suppose there’s no special evil to speak of there.”

      “When did you finally talk to him?”

      “Oh, a few years later.  I was working at the record shop and in he walks to buy a few albums, which they still had then, along with dinosaurs and steam engines.  I introduced myself, told him I’d seen him in school, tried to chat him up a little to see what he’d been doing…”

      “And it was a dismal failure.”

      “Oh, you’re good.  Man looked at me like a bug under one of his magnifying lenses.  Poor thing was genuinely confused as to why I was trying to have a conversation with him!  I suspect that if one of the records he wanted wouldn’t be until for another week he’d have never come back just to avoid talking to me!  But there he was, one week later, for his new prize and how lucky a thing that I was working that day.”

      “And you chatted him up again.”

      “Most certainly.  He’d become quite the looker, in my opinion.  I mean, he was alright when he was in school, but had more of that weedy, needs more skin for the bones, sort of look.  A few extra pounds and little more… confidence, I suppose, in the way he walked and… well, I certainly approved of that!  I told my friend Sheila that he was one I’d definitely have a go with if he was interested.  I was a bit of a naughty girl when I was younger.  Still am, really, but only for one gangly bloke who I can still make blush with something _particularly_ naughty.”

      “Always good to keep the spice in a relationship!”

      “Exactly!  Just don’t mention that to Mycroft.  I’m honestly not sure his poor brain could handle that bit of information about his mum and dad.  Probably short circuit or something!  Anyway, I gave Bertie another little chat-up when he came back for his record and decided it’d have to be me making a move if I wanted to see what he had going under those prim and proper clothes.  And, honestly… I liked him!  Even in those short chats, I thought he was very interesting and he made me laugh, which confused him even more!  Not laughing at him, but laughing with him, even when he didn’t realize he’d said something funny and I had to do a bit of explaining.”

Greg had his own laugh at that, since it was exactly the sort of thing he had to do with Mycroft.  A lot.

      “So, when did you finally get him out for bit of fun?”

      “Not for another year or so!  He’d pop in to the shop once or twice a month, but it didn’t seem to be going anywhere.  Just no real interest on his part.  At least, that’s what I thought.”

      “What changed?”

      “I got a new job!  I decided I wanted to learn to do hair, not something, I admit, that lasted very long or went terribly well.   in any case, I was doing a spot of training at the little hairdressing salon a few streets along from the record shop when Bertie strolls in there to buy some new classical piece he wanted and… my friend Anne had taken my job and she nearly fell over when he asked where I was!  and he was very demanding about it, too.  So, she decided she wasn’t going to let that pass without being properly honest and sending him my way, since she listened to me moan often enough about him not having a spot of interest in me, and there I am doing a bit of sweeping when the old… young, then… ostrich walks into the place and says he wants his hair cut!”

That was the most Mycroftian thing Greg had ever heard.  Obvious _and_ oblivious all in one go.

      “Let me guess, this wasn’t one of those unisex businesses.”

      “Good heavens, no!  And, of course, he didn’t notice that in the slightest!  Well, Felicia, the owner, she knew his mum… well, she knew every woman who didn’t cut her own hair and most of those, too… so she assumes he’s just gotten it wrong and says to go and see old William, the barber.  Bertie wasn’t having any of that!  He said this was a hair-cutting business and he was already there, so going somewhere else was inefficient and he wouldn’t do it.”

Mycroftian with a side of Mycroft and refreshing dish of picture-perfect-Mycroft afterwards to cleanse the palate.

      “Joyful.”

      “Like I said, Felicia knew his mum and knew him, besides, so she’s polite and says we’re all busy with other clients, which we were, and he could make an appointment to come back later… she thought she’d just give him a trim herself and not cause a fuss.  Well, he announces, like a king making a proclamation, that Dorothy Burke, that’s me, was not busy cutting hair, she was sweeping, so she could cut his hair now and not have to do the sweeping twice.  Which was efficient.  Bertie’s ever so concerned about efficiency.”

      “Oh my god… he might just as well have asked you out for drink right then and there!”

      “I know!  Well, not then, I didn’t, stupid girl that I was.  Luckily, Felicia had more than her fair share of experience with silly lads who had a bit of a thing for a girl and told him to have a seat and told me to get some shears and start cutting.”

      “How far along were you with your training?”

      “I knew as much as a cat might and without the artistic talent!  Luckily, she didn’t leave me to actually butcher the poor dear’s hair and pulled me aside while he was getting situated, which took about as long as you can imagine with him taking a seat in one of those salon chairs that still had stray bits of other people’s hair on it.  Told me just to do a few snips to trim any ends that looked a touch uneven and… smile.”

      “There we go.  Did you get the message?”

      “Loud and clear.  So, now, I had to smile and work my feminine wiles and realized that I was going to have to do that to someone who was already squirming like a worm on a fishing hook since it’d finally gotten though to his brain that exactly what he’d done and was surrounded by and that someone he didn’t really know was going to put their hands all over his head.  He sat through it, though.  Took everything he had, poor dear, to sit there and let me clip a bit…”

      “Like Mycroft putting on that waiter’s clothes to hand over his manuscript to Anthea’s dad?”

      “Exactly like that!  Oh, my poor, poor son… he phoned me and his dad after that and we had a devil of a time calming him down.  He did it, though.  When it counted, he did what he had to, and that’s the most we can ask of a person.  He went so far beyond what I think he even believed he could, easy as it sounds to you and me, and I was just so proud of him.”

Greg quickly refilled their drinks and spared a thought for Mycroft’s dad, long-jumping out of his comfort zone to talk to a girl.  He’d done some stupid things to get someone’s attention when he was younger, but they were just that – stupid.  A lot of work, sometimes, but nothing like that.  Nothing that had anxiety screaming in his ears the whole time.

      “That’s when he finally asked you out?”

      “No… he was trying, though, but… he could barely get out a word when I asked him a question!  Finally… I had to put him out of his misery and said I was going for a walk when I was done there and asked if he’d like to join me.”

      “Awww… that’s a nice first date.”

      “Except it wasn’t, of course.  My sweet Albert… where was I going, how long would I be, since it looked like rain, was it going to be by the chemist’s because he was entirely put off of the askew flower boxes they refused to straighten…”

Paging Mycroft Holmes, your genes are calling…

      “Why am I not surprised.”

      “Because you know my son.  Doesn’t that sound just like Mycroft?  Got it from his did and that’s the truth. of it   So, I changed that to a little drink at the pub, where they didn’t have flower boxes and we wouldn’t get wet if it rained.”

      “Did that work?”

      “It did.  _After_ he asked if I had enough money, because he only had enough for the record he wanted and if he spent it he couldn’t buy his record.”

Greg burst out laughing and found himself utterly unsurprised by the whole business.  If he’d been his young, shaggy-headed self meeting a young, combed and pressed Mycroft, he could easily see that exact thing happening.  With him rifling through his pockets to see if he had enough for a couple of pints with the boy he fancied.

Not that he fancied Mycroft, so put a big X through that scene and send it back for rewrites so they’re two mates off to have a few laughs at their local.  There, that sounded much more realistic.  That’d get the green light for that, not some cliched romcom with a shaggy rough boy and a prim prince finding love though the magical spell of opposites attract.  Silly!  And overdone.  Well overdone.  Overdone like a ruined steak.  Pshaw… wouldn’t run a single full series in the US.  Wouldn’t get picked up at all here.  Well, maybe Channel 4 would take it.  They took everything.

      “Tell me, at least, _that_ was the first date.”

      “After I said I did have the money and assured him we could stop, first, at the record shop since he hadn’t bought what he wanted and he was worried they’d be closed up when he went back.”

      “And you lived happily ever after.”

      “For three hundred years and counting!  But, that’s the best, isn’t it?  Having a good story that starts it all?  Not just the usual boring sort of story, but something silly and fun.  And it’s been more fun than I could have imagined!  That’s the truth of my Bertie and our Mycroft… they’re smart and funny and interesting and worlds of fun if… if you just give them a chance and take the time to understand them.  So, dear… what’s _your_ story?”

      “What do you mean?”

      “Meeting Mycroft!  I simply can’t imagine it was boring.  I can’t, so don’t try and convince me otherwise.  Come on, give old Dolly all the details.”

Well, given the story _was_ a fun one Greg didn’t hesitate to comply.

      “Juggling!  Oh my heavens… perfect!  Positively perfect!  Mycroft’s ferociously curious and you drew him in like a moth to a flame!  If I’d known you wanted to play his Bell, I’d have been campaigning for you from the beginning, signs and speeches and bribing him with sweets, but it sounds like you didn’t need my help.  Went with your instincts and didn’t give up even when they seemed to have let you down.  That’s just what he needs, too.  Someone clever and creative who doesn’t give up if things go a bit squiffy now and again.  Which they will!  They do in all relationships; it’s just the way of the world.  But, you’re up to it, I can tell.”

That was good to know.  Or not.  Because… there.  Right there.  Gleam in here eye.  And that was a fully-formed knowing smile! They were back in Channel 4 romcom land!  Oh no… apparently, Mycroft’s mum was fully on board with that prat Anderson’s boyfriend lunacy.  Well, there would be no knowing smiles here.  No knowing at all!  Not a crumb.  No crumbs of knowledge would ever land for anyone to pick up and have a gleam over.  Greg Lestrade did hereby declare. 

      “I did mean to ask, though, Greg… haven’t heard much about you and that Hawkins woman lately.  That still a go or did you finally come to your senses?”

Red alert!  All hands on deck to do… something.  What the fuck did that mean, anyway?  It was stupid!  If everyone was on deck, who was looking after the engines or boilers or whatnot?  Who was steering?  Not a lot of good having everyone standing out in the sunshine if your bloody boat was slowly puttering to a stop or running into a big rock.  Might as well surrender!  Which actually didn’t sound like a bad idea at the moment if it sidetracked the interrogation.

      “Janine and I were never really together, Mrs. Holmes…”

      “Dolly, love.  We close enough now.  And getting closer!”

AAH!

      “I… I’d be honored.  Anyway, we had a few… dates…”

      “You shagged like rabbits and you know it.”

Yes, but _you’re_ not supposed to.

      “A quick little thing.  More a ‘hey, you look willing’ when neither of us had anyone particular in our lives.  But, since we both get our fair share of publicity, it looked like a lot more than it actually was.”

      “You two were on the cover of every celebrity mag I bought.”

      “Yeah, that sort of thing sells, unfortunately.  More than actual talent.”

      “She is good, I’ll give her that for free.  I’ve seen all her films and she does a smashing job no matter what or who she’s playing.  But, it’s smart you moved along from that.  It’s good to get an itch scratched before it gets too bothersome and it’s nice to have a companion when you’re a bit lonely but… she wasn’t right for you.  Too young, for one thing.”

      “I’m not ancient!”

      “No, but you probably mentioned liking T. Rex and she said it was nice you took an interest in dinosaurs.”

Ok, fair point.  At least, after I played some of their songs, she agreed they had something going for them.  Still thought my dancing was rubbish though.  That hurt.

      “Like I said, only a passing thing.”

      “And now you can concentrate on enjoying the company of someone more your age and… well, who fits you better.  Someone you can be friends with, as well as love.  Someone to last your lifetime.”

      “I… yes, fine, he’s special and wonderful and I have a great time with him, but Mycroft isn’t my boyfriend, no matter what Anderson believes!”

Shit.  Was that out loud?

      “OMG…”

      “No!  Don’t say a word, not a bloody word.  Not even letters pretending to be words!”

      “I knew it!  I knew you were as happy with a firm, sizzly sausage as a warm, steamy bun!”  

      “Nope.  On a diet.  No sausages or buns allowed.”

      “Weak, son, very weak.  There’s only been a few, but there _have_ been a few stories about you having a taste for men and I knew I saw you at the Golden Globes or other awards thing giving an appreciative look at that Ryan Reynolds’s luscious arse.”

He had done that thing.  And he’d liked it.  There was no denying the lusciousness.  It simply wasn’t possible.

      “Fine!  Ok… yes, I’m bisexual.  We do exist.  Huzzah!”

      “I know bisexuals exist, silly boy.  I’m not an old fuddy-duddy, you know.  But, I know it’s probably not the best thing to admit when you’re a film star and sex symbol.  It’s a shame, a true and proper shame, but I know more than a few who had terrible things to say about people like Cary Grant or Rock Hudson or James Dean when it came out they might enjoy the company of men.  So don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.  Besides, my Mycroft lives in the middle of Narnia, so you can get up to whatever you like with nobody the wiser!”

      “We’re not a couple!”

      “Your agent seems to think so and he strikes me as a very observant man.”

      “He’s a loony who delights in making _me_ loony, nothing more.”

      ‘It’s alright, Greg.  I know how it can be when you’re in that whoofy place where you know what you want but not all of you has been properly informed of the knowing.”

Back to the knowing!  It burned like acid…

      “Mrs. Holmes… Dolly… Mycroft and I did… have a friendship ceremony, please don’t ask… but…”

      “Brilliant!  Oh, I’m thrilled for you, Greg, I truly am.  And for my son!  You’re so good with Mycroft and it’s the joy of my heart to see him with you.  My oldest glows like an angel when he’s truly happy and I could read a book at midnight just from the light of his glow today!  He lit up the moment you came through the door and hasn’t stopped glowing since!  A little glow worm is my dear, sweet son and I simply couldn’t be happier for the both of you.”

      “There was no mating!”

That wasn’t the right thing to say.  The evil woman was laughing at him.  It was deserved, but that didn’t lessen the pain.  He was going to burn his copy of _Penguins of Madagascar_ and bury the ashes so it could never haunt him again.  No, he couldn’t do that.  They were too cute and cuddly…

      “Whatever you say, Greg.  Not that I believe a word of it.  What a day!  Oh, I can’t wait to get Bertie alone and catch him up on things.  He’s going to be thrilled, don’t worry about that.  Anyone who makes our son happy will be tops on his list!  I admit, we’d imagined Mycroft being a monk the rest of his life or, maybe, finding some quiet, academic type that he’d be comfortable with, even if there wasn’t a lot of fire between them.  You know what I mean.  But this is perfect.  A big bonfire is what he’s found!  Now that I think about it… isn’t my Mycroft the perfect little acorn!  His big oak of a dad found a bonfire, too, I’m not too proud to say, and look where we are!  Let me tell you, Greg, you’ve got so much to look forward to.  And you can phone me anytime you want for a bit of a chat.  I’ve seen it all with those two and have loads of advice if you need it.  Isn’t that a lucky thing!”

And, as his nemesis began to recount his luck in tremendous detail, Greg stared off into space and wondered if the nothingness would show pity and embrace him now or was it going to be a bastard and wait until he actually died.  With his luck, it was a friend of Anderson and Dolly and would consider it a brilliant joke to let him live a long life so he could suffer as much as humanly possible.  Not that life with Mycroft could be called suffering.  It was a pleasant thought, actually.  Certainly no hardship.  Quite the opposite, in fact.  Not that he was thinking along those lines, of course.  But, never let it be said that Greg Lestrade was too dense to enjoy a bit of philosophical and theoretical contemplation on occasion.  Exercise for the brain.  At his age, that counted for a lot…


	24. Chapter 24

Anthea had an overflowing war chest of strategies and weapons to use when dealing with Mycroft, and his parents, but she had to give a nod of credit to Anderson, who wasn’t bad on the instinct front when faced with their particular brand of personal interactions.  She’d had to step in far less than she’d predicted to keep this moving along or interpret for him one of the more esoteric utterances that fell with frequency from the lips of Holmes males.  Of course, Greg tackling the more chaotic member of the party was its own form of help and not a small one, at that.  Fewer esoteric utterances, but far more stories that rambled off into the weeds to be found later only if you sent in a dog-led rescue crew.

      “Excellent.  I am most content with what we have accomplished so far, would you not agree, Father?”

      “The progress was measurable and in a positive direction, so yes, I would agree.”

Anderson smiled that Mycroft and his dad gave the night’s efforts a passing mark and thanked Greg, mentally, for providing his share of good ideas for making these initial discussions a success.  Not that he’d translate that thanks into anything but a flick on the ear and an admonition for being a useless berk, but he and Greg were both well-trained in understanding each other’s highly-camouflaged affectionate gestures.

      “Great!  Always a good thing when a meeting’s successful.  I’ll tidy up a few details with Anthea, then bring this back to the studio to use as they continue on.  Things are certainly in motion and, I have to say, they’re terribly excited about this film.  Not sparing any attention or effort when it comes to bringing on the talent and getting both cast and crew sorted to make this a film to be proud of.  I like what I’ve seen so far, I like it a lot, and I’ve seen enough to judge when a film is off to a good or poor start.  And, of course, your input, Mycroft, is extremely helpful in making that good start happen.”

Only Anderson could hear Anthea’s tiny snort of laughter, but he decided to wait to enact payback.  Yes, it was a bit over the top with the lauds, but Mycroft seemed (a) to appreciate that sort of thing and (b) likely wouldn’t notice it was blatant schmoozy toadying.

      “Yes, I have little doubt my insights will be highly critical for this project’s success.”

Anderson shoots – Anderson scores!  And the crowd goes wild…

      “Absolutely.  Alright, then… Anthea and I will toddle off to speak in the language of our people and enjoy a bit of a celebratory libation for our efforts.  Want me to tell Greg and your mum that we’re done here?”

Mycroft opened his mouth to question why _Anderson_ would question that then realized _why_ Anderson would question that and, further, that his initial response of ‘of course’ might be somewhat hasty.  He loved his mother dearly but her energy… it was oft times as if one was trying to battle a wildfire with a plant spritzing bottle.  And she was certainly emitting the most extreme of high-frequency energies tonight.  Gregory was far better at managing that situation as he seemed more capable of absorbing such energy without having it, paradoxically, drain his own internal batteries dry.

      “Not at the moment, if you will.  Father and I have a few more matters to discuss and that will proceed more effectively with only our voices involved in the debate.”

      “Right, then.  Anthea, you mentioned a tour of the house might be in my future if I didn’t humiliate you and earn a knock on the head instead?”

Anthea smirked because her counterpart had been positively salivating to get a look around the house since his client described it to him.  Apparently, Greg wasn’t the only one who appreciated a properly-appointed Hammer Horror Murder House.  Especially one that was, for all intents and purposes, housing the English branch of the Addams Family genetic tree.

      “On we go, non-simulation Mr. Anderson.  First stop, the family mausoleum with mysteriously-empty tombs, then the pit and the pendulum.”

      “Ooh, glad I’m wearing my old shoes.  Hate to get blood, gore and bits of burial shroud on my new ones.  They cost the world.”

Quickly scooping up the papers while they were both being studied by Mycroft and his father, the two agents bid their temporary goodbyes and hurried towards a drinks refill before their tour.  The work was done and now the fun could begin.  And, with a house filled with these diverse personalities, there was certainly a lot of fun to be had…

      “I believe they feel my house is a structure taken from Poe’s works.”

      “It is not an unimaginable impression for someone not as familiar with the intricacies of his writing as am I, so I did not see reason to correct their statements.”

      “I suspect it was all in jest, in any case.”

      “Undoubtedly.  Rather uninspired and obvious in approach, but the non-genius mind revels in its own forms of humor.”

      “True.  I find myself often in the position of hearing Gregory laugh at something or another and having no idea what has prompted his giddiness.”

      “You should ask him to explain.”

      “I do, and he readily provides what detail is necessary for clarity.”

      “Good.  I have found that an effective strategy when conversing with your mother.  At times, though, it is simply more efficient for the progress of a discussion to allow the matter to pass without comment else I find myself enmeshed in a conversational tangent that bears no resemblance whatsoever to the original vector of our discourse.”

      “Yes, I have experienced that very thing myself.  It is enough to acknowledge that Gregory has taken amusement from something said or done.  He is content, and our vector remains true to course.”

      “Precisely.  The lack of understanding for a small point of conversation may irritate somewhat, however, it is a small price to pay for the continued harmony of… oh.”

      “Father?”

Mycroft was used to his father suddenly coming upon some revelation, and noticed it often in himself, as well, but it was rarely accompanied by his father’s seldom-seen and highly-characteristic gleeful grin, which his mother affectionately called ‘The Excited Dormouse.’

      “I believe I have independently discovered the issue about which your mother was messaging me.”

      “Oh dear, was she tapping again?”

      “It is an efficient tactic when she needs to impart information, but the time is not right to do so.”

      “What did Mummy feel the need to impart this time?”

      “That you are in love with Gregory Lestrade.”

      “<………………………..>”

      “Mycroft?  I know you have not expired for you are still breathing.”

      “Mrdk?”

      “That is not a known language.  You are not venturing into fantasy writing are you?  We have far too many fairy or space alien languages infiltrating our current lexicon as it is.  I shall not stand for more from my own son.”

      “Npsheeee.”

      “That is appalling.  Is it supposed to be the tongue of the water sprites or some other capering fae creature?  This is entirely beneath your intellect, Mycroft, and I shall inform you now, though your mother would chide me about lacking compassion, that you are utterly bereft of talent in the area of fabricating languages.  Professor Tolkien was scarcely up to the task and you know in what esteem I hold him and his writings.”

      “Pah… flektle…”

      “That smacks of Klingon.  This film business has clearly gone to your head.  I assure you, there are individuals aplenty to write the scripts for…. oh.  Ah, I understand.  You are considering writing a script for your lover.  I suppose that is not as dunderheaded as I had imagined, though far more a sentimental gesture than I would have credited you at this early stage of your courtship.  In fact, I shall congratulate you for the idea, however, I still must reinforce that your artificial-language skills are decidedly lacking and you should pass that task to another.  What sort of film should we expect, so I can inform your mother?  She becomes greatly excited when your Gregory has a new film in production and it is always signals a flurry of rather ludicrous, yet endearing, nonsense on her part.  I would prefer to be ready for the scope and scale of the ludicrousness as early as possible.”

      “Noooooooooooooo…”

      “That had a tinge of English about it, however, you might simply be appropriating the basic sounds for…”

      “Reviewing countless times the films displaying Gregory’s bottom does not make him my lover!”

The return of Mycroft’s senses did not come at an opportune moment.

      “Alone, that would make you… voyeur is not the correct term, but I am a loss for one that is more suitable.  Where is your dictionary?”

      “My fantasies about Gregory’s bottom are not some lexicographical challenge!”

      “No, they are proof that you are erotically-enamored of your Gregory, as is proper, however, the lure of a new word is one that I can scarcely resist, as well you know.”

      “I am not enamored!”

      “Au contraire.  You exhibit a plethora of relevant metrics.”

      “False.”

      “True.  Shall I enumerate them?”

      “Y… no.  I have no time or patience for your foolish prattle.”

      “The likelihood of my engaging in foolish prattle stands squarely at naught.”

      “Yes, granted, however…”

      “Your mother and I are well aware of your homosexuality, so I fail to see why you would deny the basic existence of your relationship with that actor fellow.  I also fail to see why you failed to… no, I retract my near-assertion.  I see _clearly_ why you might wish to keep such information a secret and not only for the reason of your mother, who shall be most meddlesome once she has possession of this information.  However, what’s done is done and we might use this time to craft a timeline for revealing details of your love affair to her, so you and Gregory have some degree of privacy during these early stages of your affair de coeur.  That seems to be a somewhat critical time for these things.”

      “Am I even necessary for this conversation?  This is as painful as speaking to Mummy!”

      “That is not, in any manner, possible.”

      “Yet, you have achieved it handily.  Father… let me be exceedingly clear and plain.  Gregory and I are not lovers.  We are not in a relationship.”

      “Then explain the bottom conundrum.  One does not ogle a person’s buttocks without some notable degree of interest.”

      “Interest in the buttocks!  That does not equate to the person hosting the buttocks.”

      “Are you claiming that Gregory’s buttocks are more interesting than his other attributes?”

      “I… no, I am not making that claim for it is demonstrably false.  However, one can admire a physical feature without attaching greater meaning to that interest _besides_ the physical.”

      “I see.  You were using it as a masturbatory aid.”

      “WHAT!  NO!  My god, man… have you no shame!”

      “Shame is not a relevant issue at this juncture.  For what other possible reason would you repeatedly gaze upon images of his naked buttocks?  You are not a painter or sculptor, which might explain such a thing.  I admit I cannot claim full certainty that you have not fallen impotent, but given your lack of health issues, I put the probability of such a thing at a very low value.  Therefore, making pleasurable use of an erection inspired by visually-stimulating images is perfectly normal for a man your age.”

      “Oh my god…”

      “You are also not religious, so I am unclear as to why you continue to invoke a deity.”

      “Father… what has… corrupted you!”

      “I am not corrupted.  I am simply trying to glean why you are reluctant to admit you masturbate to the image and, likely, behavior of Gregory’s naked buttocks.”

      “I do not… do that!”

      “Then explain yourself.”

      “That is not required.”

      “Perhaps, but…”

Emotional issues were neither of the Holmes men’s strength, but that did not mean his father could not recognize a moment when Mycroft needed to venture into that area, as uncomfortable and difficult as it might be for both of them.

      “… would it help, Mycroft, if I said that… I believe you have something you wish to discuss and, though we avoid such things as often as possible, this is not the time for such avoidance.  I am willing to listen to you and offer what advice I can, without, if you wish it, information passing subsequently to your mother.”

Mycroft screwed up his face in exactly the same manner as he did when he was a boy and was caught between the Scylla and Charybdis, part of him wanting to talk and part of him wanting to do anything in the world _but_ talk.  However, as it usually did, the need to unburden himself pushed him forward.

      “I have, of late, taken greater notice of Gregory’s physical form and I cannot claim it is disconnected from a growing admiration and appreciation for the non-physical aspects of his being.”

      “You describe attraction.”

      “The word is not entirely misapplied to the situation.”

      “Your behavior indicates you have yet to act upon this.”

      “I have not, that is correct.”

      “Explain.”

      “Explain what, precisely?”

      “If you are experiencing attraction, you should inform him and broker a restructuring of your current association.”

      “I doubt there would exist a ‘current association’ after that particular confession.”

      “Explain.”

      “Father… you are not this oblivious to the basic dynamics of standard human interactions.”

      “True, however, I am not entirely certain of the status of your own analysis or ability to perform the necessary calculations due to lack of experience and insight.”

      “Your age does not, necessarily, grant you wisdom.”

      “Which of us has been married for decades?”

      “You married the only woman for whom you experienced attraction, so if you are attempting to justify a superiority of opinion with a single data point, I shall refer to you any number of treatises on mathematics or logic to demonstrate the profound weakness of your argument.”

      “Your mother was not the first woman for whom I experienced attraction.”

      “I… she wasn’t?”

      “No.  Whereas I did not, I suspect, have the unseemly level of libido as did other males of my age, based on my personal observations and evidence from various media sources, that does not mean I was without such a thing.”

      “But… Mummy is the first one with whom you actually acted upon the attraction, correct?”

      “No.”

      “No?  But… Mummy is infinitely fond of telling the story of your romance and the picture she paints is a markedly different one.”

      “False.  Your mother confines her words to our situation and does not venture into other areas.”

      “She does!  I have heard her tell numerous tales of boys with whom she… dallied.”

      “Have you heard stories about my exploits?”

      “No.”

      “Why not?”

      “I assumed it was for the reason they did not exist.”

      “They do not exist, in terms of consummated action, however, they do exist in terms of intent.”

      “Ah… your attraction was unrequited.”

      “That was my assessment, yes.  I will concede that… I was, ultimately, unable to express my attraction in a tangible manner, as I interpreted the situation to be one that would not make such a thing welcome and set aside my… feelings… accordingly.”

      “I do not understand.  You, just a moment ago, counseled me to take direct action.”

While Mycroft was growing up, his father had been an unfailingly reliable source of logic, understanding and clarity.  Seeing the man, now, hesitate… a twinge of insecurity sparking in his eyes…. was a profoundly disturbing thing.

      “I realize that, now.  And I confess that my statement was a poorly-considered one.  I apologize.”

      “Then… explain?”

Not something Mycroft’s father particularly wished to do, but his son deserved his desired explanation.

      “That is a fair request.  In truth, I lacked, in any manner, a framework for presenting myself to the girls who attracted my interest, especially since the interest was based primarily on hormonal response to their physical appearance.  I knew little of them as individuals and as I tried to gain information on that score I… it became apparent that they did not appreciate my proximity to them or attempts to broach conversation.”

      “Mummy was different.”

      “I had not noticed her in any appreciable manner in school, likely due to her younger age, though it was, admittedly only a year and four months less than my own.  During that period of development, however, one can appear most different with only a few years of growth and, when I saw her in the record shop…”

      “Your hormones had a different response than before.”

      “Yes.  And… though I still lacked the framework to broach more of an interaction than the purchase of my desired recordings, she… she had far greater skill and was willing to apply that skill to fostering a conversation with me.”

      “Did you suspect she was attracted to you, as well?”

      “Not at that point, though, I did deem it sufficiently unusual an occurrence to probe the matter in more depth.”

      “How?”

      “I… continued to visit the record shop.”

      “That scarcely qualifies as probing.”

      “True and I do not deny the fact.  It simply… I was concerned that attempting to be more… forward… might not be the correct strategy.”

      “You worried about, as they say, frightening her off.”

Or being viewed as a buffoon.  Or being laughed at.  Scorned.  Derided.  All things with which he had experience aplenty in his younger life when he tried to make a social connection.   However, the proximal relevance of those worries was low for this particular conversation, so they would, at this point, remain unspoken.  If the situation changed… then they would be discussed.  His son clearly needed assistance and there was no tool he would not use to provide that assistance, should it be deemed necessary.

      “That was a concern, yes.  It was only when she changed jobs that I realized the foolhardiness of my cowardice.   While I evaluated and analyzed and took a highly tentative approach, she easily could turn attention to another boy or find a third job that took her geographically further afield.  I calculated that the probability of appearing too brash was lower than the probability of losing any chance to argue my case that we… we seemed well-matched.  That specific outcome was highly distressing to my mind.”

      “Can you…  what was it about mother that led you to believing you _could_ create a successful couple?  She is wildly different than you in both temperament and personality.”

      “That was a point of interest, actually.  It disabled me from easily predicting her words or actions, so… she has never ceased to surprise me.  You know well how boring it is when one cannot be surprised.”

      “I do.  What else?”

      “She was kind, but not insipid.  Strong, but not pugnacious.  Garrulous, but a patient listener.  Patient in many things, actually.  Which was… helpful.  She demonstrated enjoyment of the time we spent together, there was no deceit in her happiness when shared a moment of time, whether we were doing something active, such as taking bicycle ride, or passive, such as watching a film.  She remarked positively on my appearance and other personal characteristics.  She found me funny, I could make her laugh, which I still do not fully understand, but it was… meaningful.  She… she made _me_ believe that we could be a successful couple without her consciously trying to accomplish that feat.  And, she made me _want_ to be part of a couple if she was the other half.  She was as much a friend to me as a romantic interest and… I cannot imagine a more successful formula for a wife, or husband, than that.”

      “I see.”

And, to his surprise, Mycroft _did_ see what his father was describing.  Saw it and, more significantly, recognized it, as well.

      “Do you find similarities between yours and Gregory’s situation, son?”

      “Yes, I do.  However, one extremely large difference remains.”

      “Which is?”

      “You have no basis to assume Gregory has a sexual interest in men.”

      “False.”

Pardon?

      “P… pardon?”

      “I said ‘false.’ “

      “I heard what you said, Father, however… you have no evidence to support that statement.”

      “Yes, I do.”

      “Provide proof.”

      “Your mother… ah, this is amusing as it returns us to a discussion of male buttocks… your mother has remarked more than once on her evidence-based theory that Lestrade has sexual appreciation of the male figure based on what she perceived as his open admiration of Ryan Reynold’s buttocks during some awards ceremony.  I have no memory of which one as I care little for that sort of thing.”

      “Who is Ryan Reynolds?”

      “I have no idea.”

      “And you are you certain he is male?”

      “The name lends credence to that hypothesis, though, I shall concede that it has become less convincing a thing in recent years.  However, more pressing is your mother plainly _stating_ that this Reynolds person is both male and has buttocks worth admiring.  Something she also, frequently, proclaims about your Gregory.”

      “His bottom _is_ a stellar example of that anatomical region.”

      “I agree.  It exceeds the various societal standards of excellence for the male buttocks and likely performs its locomotory and cushioning functions in a most successful manner.”

      “I believe that to be the case, also.  But, Father… do you _believe_ Mummy’s claims about his sexuality?”

For _I_ do, but independent corroboration by a third-party would be helpful, despite Gregory's admitting that very thing in my presence. It is not entirely odd, is it, to... well, to want to hear such a thing is true from one's parent? No, it was a perfectly proper wish, all things considered.

      “I have no personally-gathered evidence on that score to discuss, however… I _have_ seen him look at you, son.”

      “What?  Whatever does that mean?”

      “I did not mark it at the time as I had not the proper context to interpret the gesture, but… through this new lens, I can state unequivocally that he looks at you much in the way I remember your mother looking at me when we were younger and she believed I did not see her doing it.”

      “Is that good?”

      “Gentle, adoring, fondness is difficult to describe as bad.”

      “Dear me…”

      “I should add, given we are on the subject, that you also look upon him in a similar manner.  I must admit, those observations were most vexing until I attained a relevant perspective from which to analyze them.  Thank you, son.  My mind is more at ease.”

      “I… you’re welcome.  But, Father… what now do I do?”

      “You… speak with your mother.  This is far more her area of expertise.”

      “That… may become necessary, however, I would value _your_ assessment of my options.”

Realizing this was one of the few genuine heart-to-heart conversations they had shared and this one, like those other rarified members of the elite club, was extremely important to his son, Mycroft’s father pushed down his worry that he’d make an utter mess of the whole business and drew together his thoughts, memories and perceptions as best he could to offer advice.

      “There is no shame in needing appropriate time to plan, prepare or gather additional data before committing to a significant action.  However, in the arena of human interactions… do not wait forever, my son.  I was very fortunate that my own hesitation did not lose me the joy of a life with your mother and I would hate to see you lose something that could bring a similar joy to yours.  Muster your confidence, do what it takes to convince you one way or the other, then show courage and act.”

      “What if I approach Gregory with a proposal to explore something more than friendship and he declines my offer?  I would… I have found his friendship to be a wondrous thing, Father.  I cannot bear to contemplate losing it.  For such a short time as has been our acquaintance, I… I genuinely treasure the time we share, even if it is naught but a phone conversation.”

      “No reward comes without risk, Mycroft.  I wish I could assure you otherwise, but lies are not helpful, even when they are more palatable than the truth.”

      “Yes, I agree, however…”

      “If it offers useful assurance, then I will share that I do not put the probability of your friendship permanently fracturing at a high value.  Certainly not a statically-significant one.”

      “Gregory would remain my friend even if he spurned my romantic overtures?”

      “I doubt he will spurn your advances, at all.  I cannot, however, predict the potential long-term status of your relationship; his profession seems one that is fraught with divorce and dissolution of partnerships.  Your mother claims, and I have no reason to believe otherwise, that the work is highly stressful and energy-consuming.  Further, there is the scrutiny of the press and individuals like your mother who seem intent on knowing every detail of an actor’s life.  I cannot, and will not, give you false hope for a quiet, simple life if you take him as a romantic partner, not that it shall last beyond a fortnight.  However… I shall not dash the hope that it could be something that would give your life a degree and type of happiness that I feel confident you would cherish.”

That was not quite as assuring as Mycroft might wish, but far less bleak as he might have feared.  Above all, he knew his father was speaking with perfect honesty, offering his opinion based on, albeit rapidly-performed, analysis of available data.  His mother would speak more from her emotional instincts but, for now… the evidentiary support was surprisingly robust.  However, he was his father’s son, for better or worse…

      “That… It appears I have much to contemplate.”

      “I agree.  I suggest, that you use your contemplation period to observe carefully.  There exists the possibility that I have misinterpreted the situation, on his part, and it would be prudent to confirm my findings through your own methods.”

      “True.  Imprudence leads to many a downfall.”

      “Correct.  Do you require assistance creating an observational chart?”

      “That is a useful suggestion.  I find it easier to glean patterns when I have the complete body of data fully visible and properly organized.”

      “Then let us begin.  I suspect your Gregory can be kept occupied by your mother for eons of time, however, we must rejoin them at some point and it would be wise to be prepared to begin your initiative.  Valuable data could be lost if you are not.”

      “Yes, that is most certainly the case.  I shall choose the appropriate selection of pens.  There is blank paper in the lower shelf of the bookcase nearest the whisky decanter.  Please retrieve four sheets so we may begin.”

      “Your computer would be a more efficient tool and has software ready-made for a data-collection spreadsheet.”

      “True, however… doing this by hand feels… more consequential.”

      “That is clear evidence of sentiment.”

      “Is that wrong?”

      “For this mission?  I would say it is making a start on precisely the right foot.”


	25. Chapter 25

      “Is it safe?”

Mycroft felt both his heart and his body leap in his chair at the unexpected sound of Greg’s voice, since he had assumed the time Anderson had requested to speak with his client about the various negotiated details for the film would take far longer than the fifteen minutes that had actually elapsed.  Fortunately, the cool perfection of his crystal sphere was within reach of his fingertips for a quick, reassuring touch.

      “S… safe for what?”

      “Small joke.  It’s what you say when you’re pretending to worry about or want to avoid some bit of business going on and hope it’s all done now that your nose is actually poking into the area where it was happening.”

Explaining humor!  An excellent data point.

      “I understand.  And, I assume the business in question involves the cavalcade of characters currently enjoying my hospitality.”

      “That it does.  They’re a wonderful cavalcade, but… whew!  I could do with a bit of quiet and a chance to rest my brain.”

      “And you hoped to find that here?”

      “You are a quiet person and are occupying a restful room.”

Gregory was correct on both points as he was, by habit, quiet and his study was profoundly restful when he was not actively writing.  Must add the fact that Gregory made effective use of observation and reason to his data chart.  When, of course, Gregory was not there to witness, lest it bias the data-collection process.

      “I can find no flaw with your assessment.  Shall we move, perhaps, to my reading area to facilitate your relaxation process?”

      “I hoped you’d say that.  It’s an amazing space.”

They shared an appreciation of the reading space!  Father was correct, if he had not been prepared to actively look for data, this could all have been lost to time.  Not that all of the just-collected data points were not previously known, of course.  It was that they were _officially_ known now and that elevated them in… something.

      “Then do follow me.”

If nothing else, as we ascend the staircase, you may take the opportunity to ogle my bottom and note that it is a high-quality specimen if ever there was one.  Not as superb, of course, as yours, Gregory, however, there is little doubt it would compare favorably to that of the Reynolds fellow who caught your eye.  I shall walk slowly so might prolong your gaze at the pertness.

      “Mycroft something wrong with your back?  You’re walking funny.  And slowly.”

Pertness presentation is a failure!

      “No… my shoes felt slick a moment on the stairs.”

      “Ooh, that’s not good.  Definitely walk slowly, then.  But, if you slip, you’ll land on me and I’ve got enough cushion to break both our falls.”

Oh fine.  Boast about your bottom while I mimic back spasms, apparently.  However, you did evince concern about my well-being and that is recordable data, so I shall proffer forgiveness for ignoring my buttocks.

      “Oh, there it is… my lovely, comfortable chair just waiting for my tired old arse.”

Data!  Gregory clearly referred to the chair as ‘my’ and has sensed the telepathic tremors surrounding bottoms.  This was most excellent and certainly a reward for the unspoken forgiveness!  But… oh dear, Gregory appeared most fatigued.  He positively fell into the chair as if his legs simply no longer had the energy to support his frame.  Even with help from his muscular buttocks.

      “The hour _is_ a late one, Gregory.  Are you certain you are not ready to retire?”

      “Not yet, but soon.  It’s been such a whirlwind that it’d be hard to simply nod off at the moment.”

      “Whirlwind… oh my, I do hope Mummy was not pestiferous.  She means well, but extended conversation with her often leaves one a bit drained of vim and vigor.”

      “Not at all!  We had a grand time, I promise.  Enjoyed your fine spirits, shared stories… I genuinely had a lovely time.  Kept me on my toes, that’s for certain, and I think that’s a good thing, all in all.  Your dad’s a quiet one, though, isn’t he?  Seemed to… well, I suppose it’s to be expected that if your mum uses conversation to draw out information about a person, your dad would use other tactics.  I got the distinct impression he was studying me like a lab specimen while your mum and I had our final cocktail.”

Well-spotted Gregory.  Father and I shall compare observations, of course, but the likelihood that our perspectives will differ by more than a meagre few percentage points is laughably small.

      “Father prizes a thorough evaluation of a person and his impressions are firmly grounded in concrete and demonstrable data.”

      “Smart.  Too many people latch onto a few quick, superficial things to make a decision about a person and then it’s ages of work to change their minds, if it’s possible at all.  I have to say, Mycroft, I really like your parents.  They seem to be good, caring people and fun besides.  Fans of my work, too!  Your mum is a trivia treasure trove of knowledge about my films and such.”

      “I do apologize for that.  I was completely unaware of Mummy’s rather unseemly fascination for you.”

      “Nothing unseemly about it!  It’s new to you, I wager, but this is normal for me.  When I chat with fans, it amazes me what they know and remember.  Details of projects I’ve completely forgotten.  And I’m including the project itself, in that!  They’ll remember some quick advert I did for this or that company in the 90’s that I wouldn’t have remembered unless I saw the bloody thing with my own eyes.  They have an honest enthusiasm and interest, which is never something to discourage, unless it gets stalkery or creepy, which does happen, but not too often, fortunately.  Truthfully,  I had a great time answering her questions and listening to her memories of experiencing the work I’ve done.”

      “Then I shall reduce the severity of the rebuke I was preparing to offer her for intruding upon your stay to such a degree.”

      “I’d appreciate that.  What you _can_ do, if you’re still feeling a touch rebukey, is check your mum didn’t bring a massive stack of things for me to sign besides her shirt.  My poor fingers might fall off and if they need me to do some piano playing for the film, since your detective fellow has a talent for it, I’d have to do it with my elbows!”

Mummy would do that, too.  Likely to distribute her spoils to the vast and varied network of hens in her extended flock who clucked as loudly and strewed their feathers as unrepentantly as did she.

      “I shall make certain you are shielded from any further effort on that particular front.  But, Gregory… I admit this was a detail that utterly failed to enter my mind.  Do you actually play piano?”

      “Not a bit!  I have no idea, though, if they’ll use that in the film; not every detail of a character or book makes it into the script.  They have to capture the essence of the characters, but don’t have the time to establish the full picture as a book would, so it’s pick and choose as best the screenwriter can.”

      “What if you _are_ tasked to play for the role?”

      “Well, what often happens is they’ll just show close-up shots of hands playing cut in with the rest of the actor doing a bit of swaying and arm moving and looking like they have a clue.  If not, they’ll hire someone to teach me just enough for things to look real for the few seconds here or there they show me playing.”

      “I… I could do that.”

Why had his mouth opened?  And permitted the emission of sound.  With those words!  Had it gone mad?  Could mouths go mad?  It made no physiological sense, however, his mouth seemed to have accomplished the task with remarkable ease.

      “Do what?”

Drat.  Why did Gregory’s ears have to function properly in unhelpful situations?

      “T… teach you to play piano.”

      “You play?”

Gregory’s expression, at least, did not signal incredulous disbelief.  It was more in the vein of… hopeful anticipation.  Was that good?  Data, itself, was neither good nor bad, simply in support of in refutation of the existing hypothesis.  Which he had completely forgotten to script in a formal and concise manner!  Given Father also forget that point, however, some forgiveness could be bestowed.  Father was ferocious about a properly-conducted investigation and analysis.  Oh, Gregory was waiting for an answer.  Which he had yet to provide.  Drat, again.

      “Yes, I do.  Expertly.”

      “That’s terrific!  Brilliant writer and now a skilled pianist?  You’re a man of many talents, Mycroft Holmes.”

Compliments!  The data was both rich and jubilant, indeed.  Not that he was awarding a good/bad judgement since, as established, that was not appropriate, however… dash it all, this was splendid data and objective analysis could go and eat a rock.

      “I am, that is true.”

      “I can’t claim the same, to my shame, but I can play a guitar well enough that nobody throws rotten veg in my face while I do it.”

      “That is not a very convincing argument.”

      “I suppose not, but it’s better than people _actually_ throwing rotten tomatoes at me, so that’s something, at least.  Do you have a piano in the house?  I haven’t seen one, yet.”

      “In the conservatory.  Sunday, or a portion of it, is piano day.”

      “Only Sunday?”

      “Well… no.  At times, when I find myself in the grasp of a mental quandary, I may take a small amount of time to play and exercise other elements of my mind, while the elements currently experiencing a disruption take the opportunity to sort out the problem.”

      “Using music to clear the mind?  Time-honored and very effective.  I do the same, now and again.  Got something on my mind, so I’ll take out one of my guitars and play a little to give the brain something else to do besides mull over the same problem without making a whit of progress on it.”

Data, data, data!  Gregory shared an appreciation of music and used it as a mental balm.  This certainly spoke to potential areas of compatibility.

      “I would ask if that is possible often, given you seem to travel frequently for your work.”

      “I admit it’s not as often as I like, but I’ll take along what I call my travel guitar, which is some cheap thing that I can lose or have damaged and not care overly much about it.  Not what I’d call great quality, but good enough for a little quiet strumming when I’m sitting alone in my hotel, letting the day slough off me.”

      “I could not do that with a piano.”

      “You could bring one of those electric pianos.  They’re fairly portable.”

      “And ghastly.”

      “Maybe, but you won’t have to tip the baggage handlers a few thousand quid to carry it for you, like you would a full-size piano.  Would it… can I see yours?”

      “Oh.  Yes, if you wish.”

      “I do wish.  Might I also wish to hear you play something?”

      “Oh.”

      “Is that a ‘yes’ oh or a ‘no’ oh?”

      “More a… I was simply taken by surprise.  I… it was an unexpected request.”

      “It’s alright if you don’t want to, Mycroft.  I won’t be offended if you say no.”

      “It… I do not… only a few have heard me play.”

      “Then, how about I just take that back and we forget all about it?”

That would be best.  Or not.  He was a highly-accomplished pianist and Gregory might be impressed by his musical prowess.  But, what if his performance was substandard owing to the distracting nature of his audience?  Which was a tangible audience and not the amorphous, imagined persons his mind occasionally called up to critique his technique or discuss with him matters associated with the book on which he was working?  Gregory would be appalled by his ineptitude!  Which would be a faux ineptitude brought about only by distraction of Gregory’s majestic appearance.  And that was decidedly unfair!

      “Mycroft?  Yeah, moving on to other things.  What’d you think of Anderson?  Isn’t he a…”

      “YOUR VISAGE WILL NOT DISTRACT ME GREGORY LESTRADE!”

That was somewhat strident.

      “O………k.  I honestly have no idea what that means, but it certainly seems important to you, so consider my visage… fully non-distracting.”

      “I… ahem.  Simply a small moment of mental perturbation caused by… lilac.”

      “Lilac, you say?”

      “Anthea was sporting a lilac scarf tonight and it discommoded me most terribly.”

      “Her scarf was blue.”

      “Was it?  It… it must have been a trick of the light, then, that brought me to dissolution.”

      “Yeah, light can be a tricky bugger when it’s a got a mood for it.  How about a spot of tea to help with that.”

      “Why would tea be of assistance to light?”

      “I was thinking more of it being of assistance to your being susceptible to being tricked by it, since tea is… mentally bracing.”

      “Ah, yes, that is far more sensical a suggestion.  I believe, for now, I can manage without a cup.”

      “Ok, then, stepping back in time a few moments… my agent was highly impressed with your meeting.  Said you had some strong ideas that will be very helpful as we push forward.  I know for certain he’ll have a chat with the lighting director, who they’ve already signed to the project, about your view for the mood of the film.  A lot of the creative types signing on for this film are likely going to benefit from your insights in pulling together the look of this film.  They do amazing things on their own, I’ve worked with a lot of them in the past, but every little bit helps.”

      “Very good.  I admit that I lack the expertise to articulate the proper techniques or methods to fully realize my vision, however, I can, at minimum, make the details of that vision clear to those who can.”

Greg hid his smile as he listened to Mycroft’s words.  The people being brought on for the film were excellent and would give attention to every possible detail because they were top-notch professionals committed to doing their utmost for any project they worked on.  And, from what he’d heard, they were hoping to bring the atmosphere of the novel straight to the screen, so Mycroft’s ideas would fall right in line with what was already in planning.

More importantly, though, Mycroft was now turned away from whatever had distressed him enough into having a blurt moment.  It could have something to do with his piano talent, but that was probably not the case.  Mycroft wouldn’t have mentioned that if he was rubbish at it, so something else was burbling in his mind.  From what Anderson said, they’d left Mycroft and his dad fairly early on, so maybe there was some father-son business that had Mycroft upset.  Both had seemed fine earlier, though… well, nothing for it but keep the eyes and ears open and offer some help if it seemed the right thing to do.

      “Nice to know you’ll have an eye on things.  I’ll be out of the country for a few weeks and then I’ve got a few appearances for your literacy charity, so I won’t have as close a watch on things as I might normally.  Anderson will do my part, but yours is just as vital.  More so, actually.”

Truth be told, nobody had much to do right now, since it was more a threads-gathering time for the studio, but early snags were shit and Anderson was good for predicting those and doing a bit of work behind the scenes to clear various paths or put his shoulder to a barricade if that was needed instead.

      “You… you are leaving?”

Oops.  Someone apparently forgot something and that was a touch unusual for Mycroft.  Something was definitely sitting in his brain and being a bit of a gorilla at the moment.  One without a banana, so it was happy to pound away until it had its lunch.

      “Not this second, but in a few days.  Remember I said I had to do a few reshoots for a project?  Not my latest film, but one I worked on before this had a slew of problems.  Most were on the technical end, CGI effects and the like, but they want to reshoot a number of scenes and I’ve got to be on hand for that.  It happens, not that anyone likes it, but what can you do?”

      “Decline.  However, I presume you will respond that such is not the correct response for a professional.”

      “Your presumption is correct.  But, it’s only a couple of weeks and, fingers crossed, I’ll only be needed here and there, so I can take some time to lounge by the pool, get a bit of sun and do a little reading.”

      “Two thirds of that plan sounds positively dreadful so, on balance, I extend to you my deepest sympathy for your suffering.”

      “I always knew you were an opponent of water and reading.”

      “Amusing.  I _cannot_ imagine why one would… lounge adjacent to a swimming pool.  The purpose of the structure is to provide a place to swim, not to lounge, else they would call it a lounging pool.”

      “Not everyone appreciates vocabulary correctness as much as you do, I suppose.  Do you swim?”

      “I… yes.  I should clarify and say that I have the ability to swim, but it is not an activity in which I often engage.”

      “Is that where the sun part comes in?”

      “Partially.”

The other part is the presence of other people, but you, Gregory, do not need to know that fact.

      “Is the other part about the other people who might also be having a swim?”

Damn your incisive mind!  No!  No… one does not damn a thing, even when it works to one’s disadvantage.  Besides… it is valuable data and raw data should never be disparaged.

      “I do not appreciate intrusiveness into my activities.”

      “I can understand that.  Sometimes you just want to paddle about, float, enjoy the water and here comes some bloke with his friends who are louder than you’d prefer and decide they want race a few laps or act like idiots.  Or, even if it’s a quiet couple wanting their own swim, you feel a bit self-conscious about whatever it was you were doing.”

      “Yes… it is positively beastly of them and I cannot abide beastliness.”

      “I’m not keen on it, myself.  I’ve often thought about having a pool put in my house in London, but… I’m not home often enough to make it worth it.  They take a lot of maintenance and I certainly am too lazy to tend to any of that nonsense just for a quick dip when I feel the urge.”

      “You have sufficient property to consider such a thing?”

      “Uh… sort of.  When I mean ‘in my house’ I actually meant it literally.  I’ve got space inside to put in something, but the construction mess and the other concerns make me veto myself.  My other house has a pool, though, but the ones who get to enjoy that are my mum and dad since they actually live there.”

      “You have two houses?”

      “Yeah.  _My_ house is really the London one.  I bought the second… well, it was really to give my parents a place in the country to enjoy their golden years.  I had a miserable time convincing them to move in, but I finally used the tactic that if they lived there, I wouldn’t have to pay people to keep an eye on things and that did the trick.  A fellow comes by once a week to check the pool and do the heavier grounds work, but that’s about that.  They’re happy, though, and that’s what matters.”

      “I see.  I have tried similar for Mummy and Father, but they refuse to relocate until, at minimum, Father retires from the library.  I am not entirely certain that will ever happen, however, as I would not be surprised in the slightest if he is still staffing the circulation desk after he receives his letter of congratulations from the Queen for having a century of years to his name.”

      “Could be a kingly letter, by that point.”

      “Gregory… that is unkind.”

      “Sorry, mum.  I’ll be kinder in the future, I promise.”

This was certainly important data.  Gregory was comfortable.  Jovial, teasing without malice and… yes, it could not be denied that a fond look just appeared on Gregory’s features.  To what degree did friends demonstrate fond glances?  That must be his next area of research.  It would prove vital for the analysis of this body of information.

      “See that you do.  It is interesting, however… I had not considered an indoor swimming pool to be an option for anything beyond, perhaps, one of those luxury hotels, but I suppose if that construction is possible, then any structure of sufficient size could host something similar, albeit of a more manageable size.”

      “You thinking of one now?”

      “Not precisely, but the idea opens an interesting avenue of contemplation for the book on which I am currently working.”

      “Ooh… can I get a signed copy when it comes out?”

      “My poor fingers!  I shan’t be able to play the piano again.”

      “I’ll buy you some of that muscle cream.  It works wonders, believe me.”

And notice that I don’t draw the conversation back to the piano, Mycroft, which I know you worried about from the flash of ‘oh shit’ that made your eyes glow.  Calming down nicely, though, so crisis avoided.

      “That would be most welcome.”

Along with your conscious choice to leave alone my return to the subject of my piano.  I know well your ability to capitalize upon conversational points, Gregory, and this one was truly ripe with potential.  Further, it is more highly valuable data for my chart.  Four sheets of paper might have been an underestimation.  Six might be a better choice to add several columns for items I have only during this conversational interval specifically noted.  Father will be most pleased, as he relishes a high-volume data analysis and this certainly has the makings of a bountiful one.

      “I will keep that firmly in mind.  And speaking of firmly, I think I’m ready to greet the mattress you have waiting for me.”

      “Might I… we did not agree on a precise span of time for this visit, so might I inquire as to when you shall depart?”

      “Oh… well, I thought I’d hang about a bit tomorrow, while you were sleeping, and visit more with your parents, then have a little more time to chat with you tomorrow night before leaving the next day.  I have to get a few things in order to be away for several weeks, but… would you prefer if I left tomorrow?  That’s not a problem if you’ve got things to do or just want time alone with your parents.”

      “NO!  I mean… no.  I had hoped your response would be along the lines you provided.”

      “Good.  Then I don’t feel so bad crawling into bed tonight.  I’ll try and hold out longer tomorrow night since I can sleep on the train back to London.”

      “I look very forward to it, Gregory.”

      “Then, until tomorrow?”

      “Until tomorrow.  I shall see you at breakfast.”

      “Yours, right?”

      “Of course.”

      “Just checking.”

Greg hopped up and waved goodbye, knowing the silliness would make Mycroft’s eyes roll, and scampered down the spiral staircase, missing the three sets of three taps Mycroft gave to the tip of chin as he mentally organized their conversation into the appropriate columns and rows of his organizational chart.  It was extremely ill-advised to rush to judgement with an incomplete data set, however, given there was nobody to witness the ill-advisedness, he would take the risk and declare… perhaps Father was correct.  The implications… they were seismic in scale.

He must change his shoes.  These were positively not the pair necessary for the level of thought that must commence.  His soothing, faux-shearling slippers to relax potential excited humors?  Or his writing brogues to stimulate his mind.  Dear heavens, he was now bedeviled by footwear!  Tea… yes, Gregory had been absolutely correct.  Tea would focus his attention.  Now, he simply needed to decide what sort he desired…

__________

Exhaustion at near-critical level.  Bed within minutes of warming this sad, saggy old body.  Sleeping late absolutely possible.  Bliss…

      “Ah, there you are, Mr. Lestrade.  I have a series of questions to pose to you.”

Bliss fading like the sun’s rays at dusk.  With a loud, wet pffffbbbbtttt at the end.

      “Oh, hello, Mr. Holmes.  And, please, do call me Greg…”

Or since your nose is wrinkling like you’ve caught whiff of a foul odor…

      “… or Gregory, if it’s more to your taste.”

      “Gregory shall do.  I do not anticipate my questions will take a great deal of time, but if you prefer to be seated while you give your responses, I will not object.”

Can I be laying down?  In my warm bed?  No, probably not.

      “That sounds good.  Back to the solarium or…”

      “No, I think my auxiliary library is a better choice.”

Auxiliary library?  No, not gonna ask…

      “Please lead on.”

      “Yes, I doubt you are aware of its location.”

Greg swallowed down his smile and followed Bertie to the nearest connecting corridor, down the staircase, then to a corner of the ground floor that he had to admit had been missed during his previous tours.  And, once the large door was opened, after the knob was first counterclockwise three times prior to the clockwise turn to enable it to _be_ opened, the appropriateness of the term ‘library’ was clear to see.

      “Ooh, this is nice…”

A medium-sized room with similar cozy, warm shades for the furnishings, rugs and draperies as Mycroft’s study greeted Greg, and it was one with its own sets of built-in bookshelves that boasted little to no empty space whatsoever.

      “I do not like others handling my books.”

      “Then, I promise not to handle a single one.”

      “Oh.  No, that was not my meaning, however, your assurance is most welcome.  When I visit, I use much of my time for focused reading and have collected here a selection of my favorite books or have asked Mycroft to stock newer titles to await me when I arrive.”

      “And they stay here, safe from other hands, until you’re back to greet them again.”

      “Yes.”

      “That sounds very efficient.”

      “It is.  I do not have to take time to inspect them for signs of use that do not fit my personal patterns.  You may have a seat in the green chair.”

Oh Mycroft… nobody could ever play the ‘you dad’s the milkman’ joke on you, could they…

      “Ooh, this is a nice chair.  You and your son have very good taste in comfortable chairs.”

      “Reading while uncomfortable is torturous.”

      “I agree.  I have to do it, at times, on planes, in airports, on set, but if the choice is to be uncomfortable without a book or with a book, I choose doing it with the book, so a little good can come from the torture, at least.”

      “Hmmmmm… I would have to weigh the impact of the experience on my subsequent enjoyment of the book, however, on the surface, there is merit to your viewpoint.”

      “Thank you!  Now, what can I do for you, sir?”

      “Has your DNA been tested?”

      “My… my DNA?”

      “Yes.  The genetic material in the nucleus and mitochondria of your cells.”

      “Yes, sir, I remember that much from school.  Ummm… no?  I’ve never intentionally had it tested, unless it was done along with some other blood tests or the like.”

      “No, that is not a standard medical procedure.  Why have you had your blood tested?  Do you carry a heredity disease or have you been subject to an infectious agent?  If the former, please detail your family history with it; if it is the latter, how often does this occur?”

      “Uhhhh… neither, actually.  I get the occasional head cold and had an infected cut on my arm once, but it’s more that I have an annual physical exam and they draw blood for that.”

      “How often do your health reports document troubling conditions?”

      “I… they don’t or, at least, never have until now.  I’m a fairly fit fellow, at least in terms of my general heath.  Could stand to do a bit more work on my muscle tone, but a few weeks where I have time to use my fitness equipment will take care of that.”

      “I see…”

What?  What do you see?  And why are you writing all of this down?  Is that a chart?

      “… who in your family, if anyone, has conducted a genealogical study of your ancestors?”

      “Well, there’s that telly program they’re working on about me right now and they’re doing that sort of thing.”

      “Yes, I know the one.  It is not entirely sensationalistic, though they provide only the sparsest overview of your lineage.  Is that extent of your knowledge?”

      “Maybe… I remember Mum saying her sister Julia was on one of those websites that helps you do that sort of thing.”

      “I shall need the contact information for her.  Or for your mother if you do not have your aunt’s information immediately in your possession.”

Mum?  And Mr. Holmes?  Ok, that was a script for a comedy that would smash ratings on the telly, but was best avoided in real life.

      “Ummm…how about I just find out for you?”

      “No, it is far more efficient I conduct my inquiries directly.”

Ok… likelihood that Mycroft’s dad could be thrown off the scent.  Low.  Likelihood that Mum would be horrid to him.  Also low.  Mum was… Mum, but she wasn’t dreadful.  Just a touch… dowagery.  Broach-on-the-bosomy.  Not that she had much of a bosom, but that was the least of the problems right now.  But, thinking more about it, she might appreciate Mr. Holmes’s more straightforward approach since it wouldn’t be frivolous or silly or anything that would earn him a stern glare so he took his cap off and squished it in his hands as he backed slowly away muttering his apologies.

      “I’ll leave it… oh, you have your mobile ready.  Nice one, too.”

      “I do not eschew technology.”

      “Very forward thinking of you, sir.”

Greg provided, then confirmed, his parents’ phone numbers, email addresses and made a mental note to phone his parents first thing in the morning to give them notice of an impending inquisition and a small primer on what to expect _during_ the inquisition.  His parents were good souls, at heart, but a bit quick to jump to conclusions, at times.  The first time Anderson came to their house, his father thought he was a rough sleeper looking for a quick handout!  Not that it’d been far off the mark, at that point, but, to his credit, hid dad had slipped Anderson ten quid before threatening to call the constable and have him run off.

      “There we go.  All done here, sir?”

      “No.”

Fuck.

      “Alright, then, what’s next?  I’m happy to help all that I can.”

Not that I have any idea of what this is all about.

      “What is your opinion of children?”

      “They’re not bad with a bit of brown sauce, but a few are a touch too stringy for my liking.”

      “Was that a joke?”

      “An attempt at one.”

      “Hmmm.”

      “A poor attempt at one.”

      “Yes.”

      “I’ll remember that.  To answer your actual question, though, I love them!  Not too many of my films are suitable for the little ones, but enough are that they come out to see me when I do appearances, write me letters and send me photos of them and their pets… I adore it.  I always take time to chat with them when I have the chance to meet them in person, too.  My agent has to budget extra time to get into our away from some event if it’s likely there’ll be lots of kiddies in the crowd since he knows I just can’t walk past them without giving them my attention.”

      “I see.”

What?  I need a translator.  Mycroft’s going to have to teach me to speak this dialect of dad-language so I can muddle through with some idea about what the fuck is going on.

      “Oh?  Do you?”

      “Yes.  Now, my wife has stated that you, currently, have no children, legitimate or illegitimate despite a prolonged and… colorful… sexual history.  Can you confirm that?”

      “Wh… yeah, ok.  I can confirm that I don’t have any kids of my own.”

      “For how much longer do you intend to continue with your typical work schedule?”

      “Oh… I don’t know, actually.  As long as I can or want to.  I’m not ready to retire, that’s for certain.”

      “Hmmmm.”

      “Did I get it wrong?”

      “That is subject to perspective.”

      “Ok.”

      “Are you financially secure?”

      “Uh… yes.  I’m a fairly practical bloke, so I don’t waste my money and I’ve got a highly-diversified investment portfolio to weather blips in the financial market fairly handily.  There are people I trust managing things for me and I’m confident I won’t be in a workhouse in the near future.”

      “I see.”

AARRRGGGHHHH!

      “Do you have any aversions, phobias or superstitions that impact your ability to function in society?”

      “I don’t think so.”

      “You are not certain?”

      “I’m not psychic, so I can’t state, in full truth, that I don’t, since something could arise in the future and I’d rather not sound certain only to be caught out in what seems a lie later on.”

      “You believe in psychic powers?”

      “Uh, no.  I…”

      “Was that another poor attempt at a joke?”

      “Partly.  I also was somewhat serious in that nobody can actually predict what will happen in the future and I know people who have developed aversions and such that they weren’t born with.”

      “Ah, yes, I see your point.  From that standpoint, your answer, setting aside the failed jest, was laudably thorough.”

That sounded good.  Victory!  One enormous, shiny trophy, if you please.

      “And you remain sexually potent?”

That was not a victory trophy!

      “I…”

      “My wife believes that is the case owing to a recent romantic entanglement with a much-younger woman, however, I would prefer not to rely on second-hand information for this particular topic.”

Oh my god… did the man have no shame?  No, apparently not.

      “My cock is in perfect working order, thank you very much.”

      “I see.”

Glorious.

      “I don’t suffer from constipation, either.”

      “That was not on my list of questions, but it is certainly useful information.”

I will not ask for another trophy because I’m genuinely terrified of the result.

      “Always glad to be of help.”

      “Yes… that does deem to be the case.”

Greg had been scrutinized by countless people during interviews, on set, at parties, everywhere he went, actually, but he couldn’t remember a time that he’d been subject to scrutiny as intense as what he was receiving at the moment from Mycroft’s father.

      “I… I do, actually, sir.  I know a lot of people think film stars are self-absorbed and shallow, but I’m proud of the fact that’s not me.  It’s never been me and if I even start to get a touch full of myself, I’ve got Anderson and others to knock me down a peg or two.  When I go to my grave, I want people to remember someone who was, for better or worse, a normal man who tried his best to be decent to others and lend a hand when he could.”

      “I see.”

      “What?  What do you see, sir?  It seems to be a lot.”

      “Various things, differing in impact and importance.”

      “I have no idea what that meant.”

      “I do not see how you could as you are not privy to the framework or accompanying details.”

      “Oh.  Ok.  Well, then… look at the time!  How about…”

      “Mycroft is a good person.”

      “Y… yes, sir.  He is.”

      “Many do not realize that.”

Hmmm… this was an interesting turn in the conversation.  At least it wasn’t about cocks or constipation, though, which was a little win, even if there would still be no trophy asked for or awarded.

      “I suspect they never took the time to get to know him.”

      “That is correct.  He is a genius, has many talents, demonstrates kindness, is generous, loyal, curious, takes interest in many things…”

      “Yes sir, I agree with all of that.”

And a lot more besides.

      “My son’s substantial list of positive qualities is overshadowed for too many people by his… singular nature.”

      “I don’t doubt that, unfortunately.  People can be bastards and too often are for my liking.”

      “On that point, I concur.  Mycroft’s heart is a worthy one.”

Is there a map for this?

      “That it is, from my experience.”

      “I am told you are his friend.”

      “I claim that honor, yes, sir.”

      “And do you take seriously that honor?”

      “Yes.  I know what it means to Mycroft to accept someone as a friend, and I don’t take that commitment lightly.”

And again with the scrutiny.  The newest Doctor Who didn’t get this much scrutiny! 

      “Very well, Gregory.  You may continue with it, then.”

      “Thank you?”

      “You are welcome.  I must now speak with my son.”

      “Does this mean I’m excused?”

      “It does.”

      “Ok, then I’m off to bed.  Goodnight, Mr. Holmes.  I hope you sleep well.”

      “I generally do.”

      “You’re a lucky man.”

      “Yes, I believe I am.  Goodnight, Gregory.”

Greg smiled what he hoped was not a weak or about-to-run smile and did his best to stride confidently out of the small library.  It made sense, he supposed, that Mycroft’s dad might want to do his own vetting of his son’s new friend.  Especially with a son as unique and… it would be _so_ easy for Mycroft to be hurt.  Yeah, it made sense, despite the strange questions.  Well, hopefully, he’d made a good impression and both parents were assured that their son wasn’t being played for a fool or set to be forgotten about after awhile.

Definitely time for sleep.  Tomorrow he could worry about more strange and embarrassing questions leaping across his path and think about… other things.  One of which might center on the fact that he could now add Mycroft’s arse to the list of those that had gotten his very appreciative gaze.  Dear god, when he’d walked up that spiral staircase… the man had a truly superlative posterior, that much was certain.  And whatever underpants he wore emphasized the superlativeness to a… superlative degree.  Great.  Now he was going to go to sleep thinking about Mycroft’s bottom.  It wasn’t the worst way to fall asleep, but he genuinely didn’t need a raging hard on when he woke in the morning.  There was little doubt that Mycroft and his dad would somehow pick up residual clues and that would be the icing on the cake of his day… especially when they asked him about it across the breakfast table with many eager ears present and ready to listen…

__________

      “Mycroft, why are you wearing two entirely different shoes?”

Looking down from his perch at his father, Mycroft then looked at his feet and the somewhat forgotten footwear currently keeping his feet only marginally comfortable, given the circumstances.

      “I… I could not decide which pair was more suitable for the task at hand and hoped to combine their effects in a synergistically-successful manner.”

      “Did you succeed?”

      “No, but I decided not to waste further time by retrieving the mate of either to make a uniform pair.”

      “That would have been most inefficient.”

      “Yes.”

Climbing up the staircase to his son’s favorite nook, Bertie quickly noticed the amount of information that had been added to their prepared chart and that two additional sheets of paper had been inserted into the document to attend to unexpected details.

      “Good.  I had hoped you had begun recording data.”

      “I have, in fact… Father.  What is that in your hand?”

      “Are you experiencing trouble with your vision?”

      “No, I was simply not expecting to see a filled-out chart being carried by you, who has no need for a chart of any form.”

      “False.  I had data to collect and a data table was the most efficient manner to present the information.”

      “What data?”

      “Data concerning your potential suitor.”

      “Suitor?  Do you believe we have come to inhabit a Jane Austen novel?”

      “No, for neither of us is wearing a dress or bonnet.”

      “We would look most fetching in them, though, I have no doubt.”

The few seconds of silent time that elapsed before the duet of soft, sniggery giggles began made them seem all the more appropriate.

      ‘Your mother would agree, also.”

      “Undoubtedly.  But, Father… whatever could you have to ask of Gregory?”

      “A plethora of things.  It is my role, as your father, to ensure he is suitable for you and that his interest is, indeed, genuine.”

      “Let me inspect.”

His father’s precise handwriting was very helpful, given the letters resembled those of a 4-pt san-serif font, and Mycroft quickly read through the information which ventured into areas he would not have predicted, though they seemed logical if he adopted his father’s viewpoint as the gargoyle at his son’s romantic gate.

      “This is highly interesting, though, I believe it does qualify as nosy.”

      “I agree.”

      “Gregory… was he upset by your questioning?”

      “Confused, but not upset.  It was a calculated risk on my part, but the probability of anger or excessive embarrassment was acceptably low.”

      “Do you have, now, a firmer basis on which to score his suitability?”

      “I do and I believe he would, if you choose to pursue him or accept _his_ pursuit, be a fitting person to bring into your life.  I will, however, remind you of my previous cautions and reassert a disclaimer that it is not possible to predict, with certainty, what the future might hold.  I… I feel most strongly that, at minimum, he would be a staunch and stalwart friend who would remain in your life as a trusted companion and confidant, even if no romantic overtures were made by either of you.”

      “But, there _is_ potential for overtures.”

      “What do your own observations indicate?”

Mycroft handed over the results of his night’s data-collection efforts and used his father’s few moments of study time to draw in a steadying breath.  Father had taken pains to carry this venture forward and he would not do so if he did not think it was merited.  _And_ he was not adding additional disclaimers to his previous declarations, indicating he felt confident his original assessment was correct.

      “There is clear evidence of emotional bias in your data analysis, son.”

      “Perhaps.”

      “Are the facts accurately recorded?”

      “They are.  My interpretations, however… it is not unreasonable, given the situation, that they demonstrate emotional bias.”

      “True.  And I cannot say that the bias is unsupported by the facts, though the scope of the conclusions might skirt certain confidence levels for significance.”

      “That… that does not mean that I am wrong.”

      “It means, if given the raw data, I would draw similar conclusions, especially in light of the additional data I independently acquired.”

      “You concur that I… do you feel that…”

      “It is time for courage, son.  At a pace you can manage, but be alert for signals and do not leave them unremarked.  And… offer signals of your own.  Your Gregory is neither unobservant nor stupid, so I suspect he will recognize and correctly interpret them.”

      “How do I begin?”

      “From my observations, Mycroft, you already have.  Simply continue to be yourself, show interest in him and his life... perhaps ensure you have additional time to interact without others about to distract and divide attention.”

      “I phone him.  Does that count?”

      “It does.  And… I shall think of some activity in which to engage your mother and others in the household tomorrow night.  That should allow you time to do something private with Gregory.”

      “Such as?”

      “You must make some decisions for yourself, Mycroft.”

      “No.”

      “Yes.”

      “Show me the codified law or regulation that supports your position.”

      “I shall show you, instead, your mother’s photographs from our last seaside holiday.  She wore an extremely…revealing swimsuit.”

      “You would not dare!”

      “I _would_ dare to secure victory in this infantile battle and return you fully to your adult self.”

      “Perhaps I shall concede defeat, then. As an infant, you would have to make my decisions for me.”

      “An infant, also, has no need for a romantic interest.”

That was unhelpful, Father.  Accurate, but unhelpful.

      “I suppose that is true.  For every gain, there is a cost.”

      “It is an unfortunate aspect of reality.”

Mycroft sighed loudly and let his father take both their charts and set the papers aside on the small table next to Mycroft’s empty tea cup.

      “I approve of him, Mycroft.  Further, I believe he would treat you as both I and your mother have always hoped someone would treat you in this life.  Again, whether as a friend, or more, you are lucky to have made his acquaintance.  You showed courage in that initial contact… I have faith you can do it again.”

Watching his father rise and descend the stairs to leave the study, Mycroft sighed again, then toed off his mismatched shoes and drew his feet under him in his chair.  There was data.  Already, from one evening’s collection, there was data.  And it had been analyzed.  By two minds highly-suited for the task.  Who came to similar conclusions.

So… more tea.  Acquire the mate for his comfortable slippers and a book other than the one he had anticipated reading tonight for its tone appeared a bit… foreboding for his mood.  Something lighter, perhaps, and… inspiring.  Something where a risk, ultimately, brought the hoped-for reward.  Preferably not in the form of the death of a rival or enemy.  Oddly, he was not of a mind to surround himself with murder tonight.  There was always time for that, but tonight warranted a different theme.  With luck an idea would come to him while he made himself ready to read.  If nothing came to mind, however, Father would surely have a suggestion.  A lifetime as a librarian should be good for something besides shushing patrons and chiding teenagers photographing the nudes in art history books.  Technology was a troublesome thing at times.  Though a convenient one.  When he was younger, he had to use the library’s copy machine and hope he had enough coins for all of the tasteful nude art he wanted to add to his collection…


	26. Chapter 26

Greg had to give Mycroft a full cargo ship of congratulations for having comfortable beds because once his head finally hit his pillow, the mattress embraced his form like a tender lover to carry him off for a long and blissful sleep.  Long was the word for it, too.  He didn’t need a clock to tell him that he’d slept far later than usual.  Fully into the slothful zone, in point of fact, and wasn’t that the most wonderful thing possible for today?  Yes, it was.

Of course, waking and rising were two entirely different things, so he could cap his sloth rating at this point and simply lay there, luxuriating in the warm, thick blankets and luxuriating further in the fact that he had time _to_ luxuriate.  It was something rarer than rubies in his life.  Not that he was ready to retire yet, but he was beginning to feel more than a little envy for the old gents who could sleep in as they liked, then had the day at their disposal to do whatever they had a mind to do.  Putter about with their hobbies, go off for a pint with their mates, stay up late watching a film… it wasn’t easy having every studio still wanting a piece of your arse for their films, flattering as that was, so most of your days belonged to everyone else in the world but you.  But, the arse-wanting kept him assured of a comfortable retirement, kept his parents in _their_ comfortable retirement and benefitted some very worthy, and needy, charities, so work his arse remained the world’s happy possession to do with as it pleased.

At least a little longer.  Then, maybe, slow the pace somewhat.  Put more rest time in the year’s schedule.  Budget more than a single quiet holiday and put a few extra days on them, too, than he normally might.  Just something to recharge the batteries a bit better than had been happening the past few years.  It was harder and harder, as time passed, to keep going at the rate he, and the studio, had grown accustomed to.  Getting old sucked balls, that was the truth of it.  The alternative was worse, however, so he’d be grateful for his old, tired body and do what he could to keep his dead body at bay for a few more decades.

_ This _ was nice, though.  When was the last time he was able to just lie here and soak in the particular brand of happiness when you were lying in your cozy bed, enjoying the perfectly-warm temperature and in the perfectly-comfortable position and all was right in the universe?  Seems like it had been years and that was far too long to go without the indulgence when you were ancient and decrepit with decades to go while getting more ancient and decrepit.  So, indulging it would be and full fucking force.  Ancient, decrepit indulgence might not be fancy or flashy, but it did the trick with its own subtle panache and he was a both a wiling and satisfied audience for the show.

It was a good time to think, too.  Not a single thing tearing at you to dart off and get it started; just you with your own thoughts.  Of which he had zero, so lucky him!  No, that was a foul, foul lie.  He had lots of thoughts, actually.  One smart man was Greg Lestrade.  He could keep up with Mycroft, couldn’t he and Mycroft was a certifiable genius!  Mostly keep up with.  Sometimes things swirled a little above his head and it was the best he could do to simply watch the pretty colors and lights like one of those auroras.  But he _knew_ that it was swirly lights and colors to him, not something he could actually follow and that was smart.  Metacognitive.  Which was a word.  Probably.  He was certain he’d heard it somewhere and it had to do with the knowing what you know and don’t know line of thought.  Probably.  Or it had to do with chakras and astral projection.  Either way, it was interesting, which was always a plus.

Speaking of interesting… Mycroft’s dad was on a mission last night, wasn’t he?  The Spanish Inquisition wasn’t as thorough!  But, when you had a son like Mycroft, thorough was likely a good thing.  How many people had been rude, even cruel… used him for some gain, then said sod off.  He knew Mycroft had been through some ugly things and, apparently, his dad did, too.  Good for him making certain the stupid berk currently luxuriating in this remarkable bed wasn’t evil, conniving or untrustworthy.  But, what an interrogation… the last time he’d been through that was when was fifteen and he’d met Ellen Whipple at her house for a night out and her dad had…

Shit.  Her dad sat him down for a long question session just like Mr. Holmes.  Not as many questions about DNA or blood tests, but it had felt eerily similar.  That was daft, though.  Mr. Holmes wouldn’t be doing the ‘interviewing the suitor’ with him.  He wasn’t Mycroft’s suitor.  There’d been no suiting.  Which wasn’t a word, probably, but it sounded good.  Suiting required all sorts of things.  Official things like… asking the person you wanted to suit to agree to the suiting.  That hadn’t happened.  He would have remembered something like that.  It would have been fairly obvious!

Like the befriendedness business.  And the fact that he happily chatted with Mycroft for a millennium on the phone.  That they sat next to each other when other people were present.  Doing the little coupley things people did, like check with each other before making decisions, not that they’d had many joint decisions to make or any, really, but there were some situations that bordered on that and they’d done the coupley thing!  And the arse.  Not that Mycroft was involved with the arse-lusting beyond owning the arse in question, but that’s what you did to the person you were suitoring!  Was that a better word than suiting?  It had more letters, so that had to make it better, so suitoring it is!

He’d done it, hadn’t he?  Sent out suitory signals that… Anderson.  Fucker hadn’t been joking.  He’d been serious with his boyfriend rubbish!  And Dolly… oh, she was jumping for joy that her little boy had a bonfire on his hands!  And… crappity crap crap.  That also explained the look he’d gotten from Anthea before she went off to get some sleep of her own.  Lovely.  Perfectly fucking lovely.  Then comes dad to lay the law down hard on this clueless, empty head.  Which could somewhat be excused by the fact the head had nearly been crawling down the corridor in exhaustion, but that was a touch pathetic to lean on too heavily.  Especially since his head didn’t have any hands or arms to do the crawling, so it was a pitiful attempt at imagery.

Had Mycroft noticed?  It didn’t seem as if he had, but he could be keeping his cards close to vest.  Which didn’t make any sense, really, in this context, but it sounded smart.  He needed smart right now, too.  He’d gone and flung suitor signals all over everyone in his path and they’d not been polite enough to ignore the fuck out of them, so he needed to be smart about this.  What that meant, he had no clue, but being smart was always important and he’d rested his laurels on smartness more than once during this visit, so he couldn’t be hypocritical and claim something else now.

Fuck a duck… all that was blather.  He wasn’t smart.  He was likely the prime contender for the idiot of the year prize and there were a lot of top-notch contestants in that particular field.  So now… the question was had he flung suitor signals because that’s what he _wanted_ to do or because he was just shit doing friendship properly and had mucked it up like a champion.  Maybe he needed one of those charts Bertie had made.  That was a very efficient way of organizing information and he’d made stellar use of it, too.  Wrote down all the facts, lots and lots of facts, in orderly, labeled columns and rows, so it seemed very serious and consequential.  Which it was!  From the standpoint of high-most patriarch of the Holmes clan protecting his first born.

That was something that had his complete agreement, too.  Protecting Mycroft from evil bastards was extremely serious and consequential business.  Keeping him safe, happy… keep the nuisances out of his hair so he could write and play piano, read and watch his films… watch him smile in that way that lit up his whole face because he was just so pleased that he couldn’t hide it if he tried.

That sounded suitory.  Very suitory, in point of fact.  Felt that way, as well.  If he actually used some of the smartness he’d been boasting about, then he’d make conscious note of the fact that he felt suitory towards Mycroft.  Not in the formal ‘let me escort you to the ball, good sir’ sort of way, but the way that had you wanting to share time and to make the other person happy, stepping in when you could to make things a bit easier for them… admittedly, those parts could be interpreted as friendship, but not the rest.  Not the part about noticing his pert, fill-you-hands-perfectly bum.  Or the part about wondering how it would feel if there were two people luxuriating in this bed right now instead of one.  Wondering what Mycroft’s skin actually felt like and when he might have the chance to touch it and find out.

That was rather definitive, wasn’t it?  It was.  Sometimes you simply couldn’t deny the definitiveness.  It told you to shove your denial up your arse and clench it tight so nothing could creep back out.  Ok, that was disgusting, but the principle was sound.  Mycroft was the most intriguing, wonderful person he’d met in a long time and… there was attraction, besides.  Genuine physical attraction that could be denied only if he denied the definitiveness, but that gremlin was lodged so far up his clenched arse that it was playing his teeth like a xylophone.  Couldn’t deny something that was having a laugh and a good bit of music on the side!  No, you couldn’t.  It was impossible.

So… attraction and an honest desire simply to enjoy the man’s company.  Well, that said it all, didn’t it?  Of course, it was a one-sided saying, and there were two sides to account for here, not counting the gremlin merrily making music in his mouth.  Could he... ask?  Mycroft, not the gremlin, that is.  Probably not.  As forthright as Mycroft could be, that didn’t seem smart, which was very much the theme for the day, apparently.  Mycroft was forthright, but Mycroft also startled easily.  Spooked was a better word, perhaps.  That was the opposite of the desired result.  Had to be a tad cautious, then, but that wasn’t out of his reach.  He wasn’t always a blundering, oblivious carrot.  More times than was healthy, perhaps, but not all of the time.  Not this time.  This time he had to do things right straight off because hurting Mycroft or scaring him might not lead to a second chance to make things right.  And it would be a villainous thing to do, besides.  Greg Lestrade was many things.  Many good things and many bad things, but he wasn’t a villain.

So… drag his arse, and pet gremlin, out of bed at some point, use the day wisely, then see what the evening might bring for chances to be… suitory.  Gentlemanly suitory, to be precise.  One must be a gentleman to suitorfy a gentleman.  That just made sense.  Smart and sensical.  Which was a word, thank you very much.  One he learned from Mycroft, so it had to be true.  Mycroft didn’t use fake words.  Though, with a little prodding, he could probably come up with some brilliant ones.  Maybe they could work on that tonight.  Come up with some fake words, do something fun… sleep could kick itself into the bin because he wouldn’t be having any of its nonsense tonight.

Even if he couldn’t get a firm answer on the suitor front, he could, at minimum, lay more groundwork to plant the seeds in Mycroft’s mind that he would be amenable to a nice spot of suitoring.  Something respectful and paced to make things very comfortable for the man being suitored.  Hot, though.  There had to be an agreeable amount of spice in a proper suitoring.  Spicy flame was one of the few things a bonfire was actually good for.  Well, he’d show just how respectfully and comfortably fiery a bonfire could be when given the right motivation.  And there wasn’t a motivation righter than one Mr. Mycroft Holmes.

Maybe the suitoring should wait until he had his vocabulary back in working order, though.  Being a bonfire wasn’t much good if Mycroft was simply going to laugh so hard at him that he blew the fire out…


	27. Chapter 27

Now and again, with the rareness of his making a plate of eggs that didn’t make him wish he still lived at home so his mum could make them for him, exactly the way he liked them best, Greg had to credit his agent with being a stand-up mate who took steps to make certain his friends didn’t have a toddler-level meltdown from fatigue or frustration.  Today, for example, the agent in question had realized that, now that said client was out of bed, the continued need for relaxation was paramount and quickly made the suggestion that a trip to the village for a little sightseeing was the perfect thing.  For everyone, that is, but Greg.  Which gave Greg, himself, time for a slowly-savored breakfast, then a quiet morning/afternoon in the solarium with a book, not from the off-limits auxiliary library, and a tiny slice of bliss which helped put even more juice back into his sadly-depleted batteries.

 Of course, given the nature of the sightseers, the moment the tour bus returned, it was like watching the troops storm the beaches of Normandy.

      “Oh, you missed a world of fun, Greg.  What a lovely day it is, and all the shops seemed to have put out their very best for the lookers, as well as the buyers.  Bertie found a gadget, too!  Bertie, tell Greg about your gadget.”

      “It is _not_ a gadget, it is a phoropter.  I suspect, by its smallish size, it was part of a kit designed for a professional who traveled to perform his examinations and, likely, sell the necessary spectacles to his customers.  There is a single missing lens, however, replacing it with the requisite specimen is a challenge that I am most eager to uptake.”

      “There, a pho something or other.  He’ll have it cleaned, polished and like new before you know it.  So good with the gadgets, Bertie is.  Our house is like a museum with all the bibs and bobs we have lying about!  Ooh!  I just had a thought… Philip, love, don’t the film people rent interesting bibs and bobs for, what’s it called… ambience!  We’ve got that aplenty, so you should come and have a look at our whatnot to see if there’s something we can make a quid or two off of.  You’ll have to sign something, most likely, that promises it won’t come back with even a ding on it or Bertie’ll have your guts for garters, but I _could_ persuade him to see you sorted with something interesting if the price is right.”

Greg set aside his book and drew in a long, inner deep breath to brace himself for socializing.  Which he excelled at, truthfully, but another hour or so without having to bring those skills to the fore would have been welcome.  Fortunately, he had a few extra moments of anti-social behavior to enjoy since Anderson had caught the conversational ball.

      “There is definitely a department that handles that sort of thing, Mrs. Holmes.  If you want to photograph what you have and send it along to me, I can see if they have use for anything.  No guarantees, though.  They have their own connections and suppliers and can be a bit territorial about that sort of thing.”

      “I’ll get right on that when we’re home.  Bertie!  You can use one of those photo apps for your phone to make our snaps look especially marketable.”

      “I have several that enhance image appearance most professionally.”

      “See!  Professionally, Philip.  That’s worth extra, that is.  Between Mycroft’s two billion quid and this extra cash… we’ll be swimming in banknotes by summer.  I’m going to buy another swimsuit, even scantier than the one I wore on our last holiday.  You can do that when you’re obscenely rich.  Wear whatever you like and if anyone complains, throw a hundred quid at them so they go away and have a drink or five to turn their heads around on the issue.”

      “Your current suit is sufficiently revealing, my dear.”

      “Nope.  Gotta let my ladies see more sunshine!  And the rest of me, too.  Oh!  Oh… Bertie, you and I are going to do one of those nude beach things.  Get sunshine on everything!”

      “No.”

      “Then I’ll use my share of our son’s two billion quid to buy my own beach and christen it Dolly’s Land of Heavenly Nakedness.  Can’t come and have a bit of sun and sand if you’ve got anything on more than shoes and sunglasses.”

      “I will not accompany you.”

      “You most certainly will!  Who’s going to watch my handbag when I toddle off for a swim?”

      “If you have the funds to purchase a private beach, you have sufficient funds to hire a guard for your handbag.”

      “Well, fine then, but remember… he’ll get to see me in the altogether.  Might like what he sees, too.”

      “That is narrow-minded.  Why would you automatically assume your security professional would be male?  Or heterosexual?”

      “You’re right!  Mind’s stuck right in the pitiful, narrow past, like a sad old lady.  Lucky thing I have a liberal, open-minded husband to keep me modern.”

The quick look around confirmed that nobody was willing to take up the topic of Albert Holmes’s modernity, but everyone _was_ ready to take up something from the decanters on the sideboard.  Anderson, in particular, decided that being first among men for the alcohol was an honor he was glad to receive.

      “Well, until you’re a beachfront property owner, dear lady, how about a drink?”

      “I know why Greg keeps you on as his agent, Philip.  You know exactly the right thing to do at precisely the right time.  A big one for me, please!”

While Anderson began pouring big ones of whatever was on offer for the gathering, Greg shot a quick look at Anthea who gave him a slow, knowing smile in return, confirming that she was, unquestionably, on board with his own thoughts from the morning.  And afternoon.  But, it wasn’t a look of disapproval on her face.  Quite the opposite, actually.  It might be considered encouraging and that was important.  Parents had a gene that wanted their offspring to become involved in a relationship, but agents didn’t.  They probably were content with no relationships, at all, since they cluttered up a person’s life and interfered with work.  Anderson had his fair share of comments every time he was involved with someone.  Admittedly, the people he was involved with were usually for the fairly obvious purpose of giving them both a healthy amount of sex and fun, with no particular urge to take things any further.  This was different, though.  And Anderson had been the first one to actually recognize that and bring it out into the open.  Like a complete bastard, of course, but facts were facts.

      “Looks like everyone had a nice day.”

If there was an Oscar awarded for Most Generic Statement Every Uttered, it would be sitting on Greg’s mantle, name engraved but likely misspelled to denote that this was, at best, a booby prize.

      “Your agent indicated that time to yourself to rest was more beneficial than exploring the village, so you were not invited to join us at any point.”

Greg nodded sagely as he could at Mycroft’s father, doing his best not to grin that Anderson’s fiendish plan was exposed in such a plainly-stated way.

      “I’ll thank you for it, Mr. Holmes, as that was _exactly_ what I needed today.  Slept late and spent the day with a good book and a bit of radio.  It’s a myth, at least for me, that film people have most of their days to simply lounge about, do lunch and go to parties.  Any time I can find for some peace, quiet and rest is always a blessing.”

      “As Mycroft also prefers a peaceful and restful environment, this stands as further evidence of your compatibi… oof.”

As if the cat wasn’t dragged out of the bag already, the quick backhand to the belly bestowed by his wife who followed it with a ‘what is wrong with you, you silly man’ glare and wag of the finger dragged its kittens and all their mittens out, too.

      “Yeah… visiting is certainly not a burden what with the peace and quiet Mycroft likes in the house.”

      “The trajectory of my commentary, before I was violently assaulted, was to indicate that, though we, that is to say, all present in this room bar you, shall be engaging in some form of entertainment this evening, you will be continuing with your current endeavor of restful rejuvenation with something more placid.  With Mycroft.  There.  That was not, at all, inappropriate or revealing of our ulterior motives, Dolly Holmes, so kindly keep your thuggish brutality to yourself this time.”

As Dolly gave the room a perfect ‘look directly into the camera’ stare, Greg fought off the other stares, these from Anderson and Anthea who smirked in his direction and seemed to be considering starting a wager on how long it would be before Greg and Mycroft were shagging.  Which would, in all likelihood, be passed along to the village by the house staff so the cottage industry of betting on his life could continue and thrive.

      “My life!  This is my life.  Married to this wonderful man who is so gloriously clueless at times I could kiss him within in an inch of his life.  Come here, Bertie, I want to give you a wet, sloppy kiss for being you.”

      “No.”

Fortunately, handing over two potent beverages forestalled the chase around the room that was about to ensue, and Greg took a long sip of his while trying not to think that if he was to become shaggingly-involved with Mycroft, this was absolutely the sort of extended friends and family situation he wanted to step into.  No matter how loony he was, he could never top this lot.  Greg Lestrade – the rational person in the room.  That was novel.

      “I’m certain that everyone will have an enjoyable night, sir, no matter what they get up to.”

Oh good, now everyone is giggling at me.  Well, it did take Mr. Holmes a moment to step of board, but how fortunate that his darling wife was happy to whisper an explanation as to what ‘get up to’ can mean to the filthy minded, so he could have a small snicker at the expense of one long-suffering actor.

      “Yes, I have no doubt you will ‘get up to’ a series of pleasurable things, Gregory.  Mycroft already has prepared himself by repeatedly watching your films for the specific purpose of… oof.  Damnation!  I may have suffered a bruised diaphragm.”

A frantic session of domestic whispering occurred that resulted in a definitive ‘ah’ from one spouse and a ‘I love you madly, even when you’ve hopped off the train’ from the other.

      “My wife has reminded me that the list of individuals privy to certain lines of information is most limited and, for reasons best not discussed, the stringency of the access restriction must remain intact.”

      “O….k.  I can appreciate that, Mr. Holmes.  Film studios have to keep information compartmentalized sometimes.  I will not inquire further into the sensitive information, nor will anyone not cleared by you and your wife.”

      “Acceptable.  And, I suggest you request a tour of the grounds this evening. It is a most interesting, and restful, experience.”

      “Oh, I’ve done a walk round the grounds already.”

      “That is not the tour to which I was referring.”

Why was Anthea laughing?  That couldn’t be good.

      “Isn’t it?  I would have thought I’d seen the lot what with… seeing the lot.”

      “Incorrect.”

      “O….k.  That sounds like a splendid idea if the night’s not too cool.”

      “The temperature should be most agreeable, however, I have little doubt Martha can provide you with a suitable jumper or blanket.”

Blanket?

      “Cozy!  Very, very cozy.  Why the _fuck_ are you laughing, Anthea?”

      “You’ll find out, actor man.”

      “It’s going to hurt, isn’t it?”

      “Ummmm… that’s hard to say.  I haven’t had a look at things recently, so I can’t say for certain.  But whatever Mrs. Hudson might have for you – jumper, blanket, flask of brandy, bag of weed, smelling salts… just smile and take it all.”

He was going to die.

      “I’ll make sure to do that.”

      “Oh, you’re going to have fun, Greg dear.  Bertie, that was a marvelous idea.  You so good about having marvelous ideas.  Like suggesting this whisky to our silly son.  Mycroft’s got fussy tastes, sometimes, Greg, you should know that now, and he can be a bit stuck in his ways when he’s found something he likes.  His dad finally replaced the whisky Mycroft normally stocked with this stuff so the fuddy-duddy had to try it and, quelle surprise, he thought it was tops!  Which is good because what he used to have was too smoky for me.  I’d like to have a nice sip of whisky, thank you, not have a suck on some old, charred log!  This is leagues better.”

The conversation took on the form of a whisky debate that Greg happily sat on the edges of while he sipped his not-too-smoky drink and continued to relax.  Apparently, their little group was content to enjoy themselves without his begin part of the entertainment and that was more than alright with him.  Whatever lay in store for him later, however, was another matter.  One, unfortunately, he had little doubt he’d _have_ to learn because there was no chance that the idea for this mysterious tour of the grounds wouldn’t make its way to Mycroft’s ear.  Likely through several willing informants.  And, since this was not highly-classified information, there would be nobody stepping in to stem the tide…

__________

      “Gregory!  There you are… Mummy has informed me that you desire a tour of the grounds.  Such an excellent idea, as the others have a dreadful plan to use my cinema for one of the films that Mummy finds exciting.  We shall enjoy a much more enjoyable experience, that I can guarantee. Do meet me outside the easternmost rear door once you have visited Mrs. Hudson and received your jumper and blanket.  She may also provide you with a scarf and it seems there is a small breeze tonight which raises the possibility of catching a chill.”

Mycroft was happy.  Very happy.  The death that was coming on swift wings was going to an evil one, wasn’t it?  Yes, yes it was.  Evil deaths always made murderers happy.  They had a nice laugh while you watched your life flash before your eyes.  That was going to be depressing, too.  Probably would be edited for time and content, just like one of his films for the American telly, and all the good bits would stay on the cutting-room floor.  Dying and watching the boring parts of his life flash before these tired old eyes.  While Mycroft stood there and cackled like a maniacal genius.  At least he’d be warm.  Dying while, simultaneously, catching a chill would just be too much for a sane man to bear…

__________

      “You have got to be kidding me.”

      “I fail to see any aspect of my current status that might be considered evidence of a jest.”

      “That… _that_ is evidence.”

      “My valiant steed?”

      “It’s a golf cart.”

      “A valiant one, however.”

Greg looked at the immaculately-clean golf cart, custom-painted with a steel-blue, charcoal and black palette that suited the writer perfectly except for the fact that it was applied to a golf cart which, in no manner, suited the writer perfectly.  Though… why did Mycroft have to look so cute sitting in it?  With his pleased grin and hands equally spaced from twelve o’clock on the steering wheel.

      “It’s a handsome cart, that’s for certain.  Exactly how bespoke _is_ your steed?”

      “Very.  I had exceptionally-specific instructions delivered to the manufacturer and refused two attempts at delivery for violations of those instructions.  This one, however, was acceptably up to snuff.”

      “I will admit, I never considered something like this.  Might I ask why you have it?”

      “For our tour!  Or, in a more general sense, to use when I wish to go further afield that I would prefer my legs carry me.”

      “How about a car?  Or a bicycle?”

      “This is a far more efficient mode of powered transport for my purposes than a car and does not require any effort on my part other than the motion of my arms and one foot, something a bicycle cannot boast.”

      “That makes sense.  I take it that you’re ready to chauffer me about in your admirable vehicle?”

      “That I am.”

      “Ok.  First, though…”

      “Yes?”

      “What’s its name?”

      “Pardon?”

      “Steeds have names, valiant or not.  What’s this one’s name?”

      “I… I have no idea to what you are referring.”

      “Meaning it _has_ a name, but you don’t want to say it aloud.”

      “Wrong.”

      “Right.  I can see it written all over your face.  What’s its name, Mycroft?  The one you think in your head and put after the ‘thank you’ when it’s given you a comfortable ride.”

      “I…”

      “I’m not boarding a nameless steed. That’s prime fantasy-novel bad luck right there and Greg Lestrade does not consciously court bad luck for love nor money.”

      “It… Herbert.  His name is Herbert.”

      “Be honest, Mycroft.  It’s actually Herbie, isn’t it.”

      “I refuse to confess.”

      “I loved those films when I was a kid!  They were perfect for a lazy afternoon.  Racing, action scenes, a car that could think and do amazing things, for a car, that is… it’s a very good name for steed.”

      “Mrs. Hudson suggested the name, but did not inform me of its origin until after I agreed it was suitable.  I was then forced to watch the film in question, which nearly ended my life due to brain destruction, but I found…”

      “It had grown on you.”

      “Yes.  I could not deny there was a… pluckiness… about the little car that was not altogether dissimilar to my valiant steed.”

      “Pluckiness is a thing to value, that’s for certain.   I do, however, have to reconsider my score for the paint scheme.  I can manage the lack of stripes, but there’s not a number 53 anywhere.”

      “Au contraire.”

Mycroft nodded towards the front of the cart and Greg moved to look, laughing at the plate which had a single number 53 prominently placed in the center.  Even the font was correct.

      “I stand corrected.  Very well, then, you, me and Herbie are off for an exploration of the wilds of your property.  Which, now that I think about it, must be pretty large if a leisurely ramble won’t do the job of taking you fully hither and yon.”

      “It is. I prize very highly my privacy.”

Except when you were hosting the village for a burning-at-the-stake reenactment, but that was understandable.  You had to make allowances for the fun things in life.

      “On we go, then!  I’m looking forward to this, Mycroft.  Always enjoyed a quiet evening drive, even if it was just me and my thoughts as passengers.”

      “I take it you mean a drive in a car.”

      “Yeah, that’s generally the case.  Riding in a golf cart is completely new to me.”

      “I am delighted to offer you a new experience.”

      “And I am thanking you now for it!”

__________

Retracting the thanks!  Retracting and giving it five fucking slaps across the face for being a traitorous bastard!

      “Mycroft!  That’s a tree!”

      “A small one.”

      “Big enough to kill!”

      “Hardly.  Besides, we scarcely clipped it.”

      “Hole!”

      “Where?”

      “Ow!”

      “Ah, there it is.  Only a small one.”

      “Small!  It was as deep as a well!”

      “The suspension of my steed is extensively reinforced for rugged terrain.”

      “My bum isn’t!”

      “Pish tosh, Gregory.  Your bottom is well-equipped to withstand any measure of vehicular turbulence.”

      “Can you not drive the speed of light, at least?”

      “It is scientifically impossible for this cart to move at that velocity, especially given the frictional resistance it is encountering by not being in a vacuum.”

      “You’re driving faster than you can see!”

      “Rather bracing, is it not?”

      “You had a custom motor put in Herbie, didn’t you?”

      “It is positively brimming with pep!”

Herbie the Pep Bug.  Bloody fucking marvelous.

      “Tell me, please tell me, you don’t drive a car like this.  Rabbit!”

      “Fear not, they are notably skilled at avoiding collisions.  And, I do not possess a license to pilot a motor vehicle.”

      “Nobody would give you one, would they?”

      “I…”

      “How often did you fail the driving test?”

      “I do not recall.”

      “But it was a number larger than naught.”

      “Somewhat, yes.”

Thank heavens someone was looking out for public safety.  The man was a menace!  In a golf cart!  If he had a car, they’d have to lock up the women, children and livestock!

      “I can underst… log!”

      “Surmountable.  Do not clench your buttocks, Gregory, that diminishes the cushioning effects.”

      “I’m going to die.”

      “Not today, most likely.  However, it is rather early and our adventures have only begun, so I can offer no assurances.”

      “Funny man.”

      “Very true.  I am happy you agree.”

__________

      “Gregory, why are you kissing the dirt?”

      “Because it’s seen fit not to have me buried beneath it yet.  I’ll do it again if we make it back to the house alive.”

      “Truly you are a silly man, at times.  I must say, though, it is not an altogether tragic attribute.”

      “Does that mean I can drive back?”

      “No.”

      “Didn’t think so.  You look more like Dean Jones than I do, anyway.”

      “I… thank you?”

      “You’re welcome.  I’ll give this to you, though.  We stopped at a lovely location.  Is this lake yours?”

      “It is, in point of fact.  It is not a terribly large specimen, but it boasts a laudable degree of biodiversity, especially when the birds are migrating.  It is one of my favorite places to visit at dawn, just before bed, to catalog the various species that may be found.”

      “That sounds fun, actually.  And, it’s a nice view at night, too.  Owls?”

      “Most assuredly.”

      “I’ll keep watch for them.  They’re some of my favorites.  My gran had an old… she called it barn, but it was more an oversized shed, that fell to ruin, but the owls were happy to make a home of it.”

      “Did they impart unto you mystical secrets?”

      “Nope, buggers didn’t have a single useful thing to say, mystical or otherwise.”

      “A shame.  Father has me in mind of fantasy and mythology today for… reasons… and it seemed a hopeful thing to learn might be true.”

      “Maybe it was just Gran’s owls.  She was more the practical, none of your incense and mysticism malarkey type, so it stands to reason the owls that visited would be of the same mind.  Shall we take a stroll?”

      “Oh.  I suppose.  If you like.”

      “You don’t sound enthused.”

      “I had not anticipated you would wish to walk about.”

      “What would you have done had you anticipated that you didn’t do because you didn’t?”

      “My shoes.”

      “Not the right ones.”

      “I am not wearing my far-field nature shoes.”

      “Are those different than other nature shoes?”

      “Yes.”

      “Ok… I can imagine that, so how about we hop back in Herbie and sit a moment.  Admire the sight of the moon on the water and listen for any stories the owls might want to tell?”

      “That is a more agreeable suggestion.”

      “Hopping!  Ah… there.  Tell me you do this often, Mycroft, because it’s genuinely a lovely way to spend a little time.”

      “On occasion.  As with my piano, it is a productive method, at times, to gain for me a fresh perspective about an issue with a book.  I find this lake, especially at night, to be a highly-effective venue to contemplate murder and its associated complications.”

      “Good for non-murdery contemplations, too, I wager.  Would you mind if I put my feet up for a bit?  Just right there above the dash.”

      “Your shoes are dirty.”

      “Ummm… a little.  Is that too much?”

      “Yes.”

      “What if I promise to wash off any dirt on Herbie when we’re back at the house?  If I’m still alive, that is.”

      “It…”

      “How about I take off my shoes and prop my stocking feet up there, instead?”

      “Hmmmm...  Are your socks clean?”

      “I’d say you could inspect, but it’s a bit dark for that.”

      “My eyes are most keen.”

      “Ok… just a moment… now the other one… here.  I’ll prop them… lean over, raise them, pretend I have core muscle strength, and hold them up for you to see.”

      “Very good.  Oh dear, that does look uncomfortable, however, one does what one must, I suppose.  Now, this one… is marginally acceptable.”

      “Marginally?”

      “Points are deducted for the smudge.”

      “There’s a smudge?”

      “Yes.”

      “Ok, fair.  Does it get a passing mark?”

      “Only just.”

      “I’ll take it; I’m not proud.  The other?”

      “This one… I regret to inform you that it does not pass the test.”

      “No?  Why not?”

      “There is a hole in your sock.”

      “Holes aren’t dirt.”

      “They are portals through which dirt enters.”

      “Enters what?”

      “The inside of your sock.”

      “Which won’t be on Herbie’s head.”

      “That… I suppose that is actually true.  However, that, in some ways is more troubling as the inside of your sock could harbor any and all varieties of upsetting material.”

      “Yeah, that actually has me feeling a little wiggly now, so hold on… there.  The sock is removed to reveal the state of my foot.  Is the foot free from smudges, holes, gremlins, coots and bandersnatches?”

      “Why would a bird be on your foot?”

      “Bandersnatches are birds?”

      “No, coots.”

      “There’s a bird called a coot?”

      “Yes.  In the Rallidae family.”

      “Seriously?”

      “They are not uncommon in this country, Gregory.”

      “I haven’t met any.”

      “Likely you have, you were simply unaware of their designation.”

      “I guess I was.”

      “What form of creature did you believe was a coot?”

      “Troll.  Ogre, maybe.  You hear about old bastards being old coots, so it stood to reason.”

      “I suppose I can understand your misapprehension.  The phrase has various shades of meaning that vary from…”

      “Mycroft?”

      “Yes?”

      “Can I put my feet down because my abs, such as they are, are screaming at me and being very rude about it, too.”

      “Oh, yes.  Please do.”

      “On Herbie?”

      “Provided you do not again don the unacceptable sock.”

      “I’ll let Mrs. Hudson burn it.”

      “That is probably for the best.”

      “Ok… there we go.  This is the perfect way to stretch out in a bespoke golf cart.  All I need is a drink in my hand to make this truly hedonistic.”

      “One moment.”

Mycroft reached around to open what Greg learned was a concealed storage compartment and extracted a bottle of wine and two glasses.

      “Wine!  I don’t know, though, Mycroft. For you, this is drinking in the morning and that’s a step along a very unhappy path.”

      “Oddly, it is something with which I have some familiarity, given the occasional guest I host or visit to the village.”

      “Great!  That means I don’t have to drink alone, which is another path to misfortune.  Pour me a glass of your finest, kind sir.”

      “Oh, I did not bring my finest wine.  It seemed rather an extravagant choice for a simple tour.”

      “It’s just an expression, especially when you know the situation doesn’t call for the finest wine or food or whatnot.”

      “Ah, yes.  I understand.  I do believe you will enjoy this, however.  It is a hearty vintage that seemed most appropriate for the ruggedness of our experience.”

Mycroft thought sitting in a luxury golf cart by a lake was rugged.  That was so adorable it should be illegal.

      “Correctamundo!”

      “Pardon?”

      “Made up word.  I think.  I’ve heard it a lot, but it can’t be real.  That’s too upsetting to contemplate.”

      “I agree.”

      “You have a try at one, though.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “Make up a fake word.  Something that’s not real, but carries a meaning.”

      “No.”

      “Why not?”

      “That is… there are a bounty of words in existence to do the task.”

      “Doesn’t mean you can’t have fun, though.  I’ll start.  This wine is robustalicious!”

      “That is… hmmm…”

      “It was a good one, wasn’t it?”

      “It is utterly ludicrous, however, I believe I better understand your goal.”

      “And it’s fun, don’t forget that part.”

      “I have no data for that.”

      “Then try one!  Make up a word.  Right here and right now.  Use that mighty brain for ludicrousness.”

      “I… I have no idea where to begin.”

      “I’d say adjective or adverb.”

      “Could you… a touch more direction?”

      “Ok… let’s pick something.  How about my hair?  It sort of defines ludicrous, so it’s a proper target for a truly eyewatering fake word.”

      “Your hair is not ludicrous.”

      “I beg to differ.  It’s an unruly mass of weeds that sprouted and nobody can easily control without a few vats of product and a voodoo ritual.”

      “I disagree.”

      “I disagree with your disagreement.  See, run my hands through and it’s nothing but a platoon of sad, old gray soldiers standing somewhat at attention, except for the few that can’t be arsed and are looking about on the ground for spare change.”

      “Incorr… very well, you may have a point on that score, however, I would assign the blame more to the short length, rather than a general tendency towards willful disobedience.”

      “See!  My disagreement wins the day.”

      “Incorrect.  Conduct is but one attribute of hair.”

      “Ok… it’s also greasy.”

      “I have not noticed such a thing.”

      “I use an excellent degreaser.  The lads who work in the motor pool for the studio swear by it for keeping the engines clean and shiny.”

      “False.”

      “You have no proof of the falsivity.”

      “That is not… I see.  Another of your fabricated words.”

      “Your turn!  I’m two ahead now.  You can’t let that stand.  It’s not British.”

      “What?  Truly you are incorrigible, Gregory.”

      “Is corrigible a word?”

      “It is.”

      “Shit.  Then I can’t claim it to boost my record to three fake words.  I’m still ahead by a ginormous margin, though, so best get on it, before you get further behind.”

      “Really, Gregory… that is utterly inane.”

      “Gigantic plus enormous equals ginormous.  Try that.  Put two words together to make one fake word.  You can do it, Mycroft.  I have faith.”

      “Put that way… it does seem… possible.”

      “Give it a try, then.  You can’t really do it wrong, so toss out something to see how it feels.”

      “Alright… I disagree that your hair is ludicrous because… it is argentorgeous.”

      “I… ok, I’m lost.  I’m _positive_ you’ve done it right, but my vocabulary isn’t as big as yours, so it may have gone over my head.”

      “I combined argent, which a root for silver, with orgeous, which is the suffix for gorgeous.  Argentorgeous.”

Which, now that Mycroft said it, seemed a shocktacular confession to make and that his brain offered it up as a first try made it even more revealing. 

      “Oh… well… I have to say, that is an _amazing_ first fake word!  You shot right to the top of the scale with that one.  And… I’m glad you like my color.”

Greg’s own brain took several seconds to pick up on the fact that he was doing the cliched shy and pleased smile, which shrieked to the world that he was a teenage boy whose crush had paid him a compliment.  Maturity was never his long suit, but this was a tad ridiculous.

      “I… I am glad that you are glad.”

Mycroft mulled his own maturity and found it profoundly lacking.  However, since he had wine he could drink several glasses and, hopefully, erase the juvenility from his mind.

      “I’m… glad.  Bugger.  Anyway, I like your hair, too.  Especially when that curl in the front is particularly floofy.  It’s a bold fellow, isn’t it?”

      “Oh… yes, it is.  It defies attempts at control and… you like it?”

      “I do, at that.  It’s unique, different.  Gives you that certain bit of panache that loads of people simply don’t have.”

      “I have panache?”

      “Of course you do!  Not the flashy, garish panache that’s more of an embarrassment than a positive quality, but the quiet, subtle panache that does it right.  Makes you someone people notice.”

      “I… I thought I was rather a dowdy individual.”

      “Not being flashy isn’t the same as being dowdy.  You dress perfectly for your body type, with colors that really work for you, for instance.  You hit the right marks, when most people don’t quite get it all to come together...”

It was worth some form of blood sacrifice that Gregory had not witnessed his slipper/brogue debacle.  It would have eroded the panache and that… well, he would never have _known_ about the panache if that had occurred!  Nor Gregory’s appreciation of it.

      “… and it’s not boring clothes, either!  Smart, handsome clothes that say… well, I don’t know what exactly, but good things, that’s for certain.”

Each man took a moment, a _long_ moment, to sip their wine and try to fathom out where the conversation had gone and what were the steps forward to either capitalize on it or run away screaming like four year-olds that had just seen their Gran give her dentures a nudge out of her mouth.

      “I… that is very kind of you to… Gregory.”

      “Did you forget to finish that sentence?”

      “Look.”

Greg followed Mycroft’s pointed finger, which made a Boschian tableau with the expression on his face and took a moment to try and decide exactly what was causing the drama.

      “I got nothing.  What am I supposed to be looking at?”

      “Right there.”

      “My toe?”

      “On your toe.”

      “You mean the bug?”

      “How can you bear it?”

      “It’s just a little fellow.  Beetle, maybe?  I’m not good with knowing one bug from another.”

      “It is… crawling on you.”

      “Yeah, he’s having a bit of a walkabout, but they find adventure in their own ways, I suppose.  Never considered my toe very exotic, but maybe it’s like Borneo or something to him.”

      “Gregory…”

      “Is it bothering you?”

      “Yes.”

      “Is it the bug part or the toe part?”

      “I… it is melding of the two.”

      “So, my toe is ok on its own, and you don’t have a specific thing against our little friend?”

      “Your toe is… there is nothing particular unappealing or monstrous about it and I cannot say with any fervency that I am opposed to insect life.  Many are most beautiful and I have had dragonflies perch upon my finger when I have made it available as a resting spot.”

      “Would a dragonfly on my toe be bothersome?”

      “Yes.”

      “Alright, then!  Now I know what’s what and how to avoid the issue in the future.  Let me just… FUCK ME THAT ARSEHOLE BIT ME!”

      “GREGORY!”

      “AND HE FLEW AWAY LIKE THAT WAS HIS PLAN ALL ALONG!  I’VE BEEN TRICKED BY A BUG!”

      “Dear me… is it extremely painful?”

      “Waahhhh!”

      “Was that assent?”

      “It was a fuckload of assent.  Feels like my toe is on fire!”

      “Let me think… brave heart, Gregory… oh dear… insect venom could be proteinaceous, which might render it susceptible to being precipitated and deactivated by alcohol.”

      “I have no idea what any of that means.  Besides my name.”

      “Move your toe this way.”

Greg extended his foot and watched as Mycroft poured a bit of wine on the insulted digit, as well as his trousers.

      “Oh Gregory, I do apologize.”

      “It’s ok… my toes isn’t feeling better though.”

      “It was only an afterthought that the infinitesimal size of the hole created by the bite or sting would likely not permit an appreciable flow of wine to the affected subcutaneous tissues.”

      “Nope, didn’t understand any of that, but I do love hearing you use big words.  It’s like a calming song on the radio.  Calm is good right now.”

      “Oh… that is heartening to know.  I do tend to be somewhat garrulous in a polysyllabic manner when I am disconcerted.”

      “Very, very calming…”

      “Are you still in pain?”

      “Very, very agonizing…”

      “I… should you rub it?”

      “It’ll fall off.”

      “I doubt that is the case.  Even the most virulent venom would not begin to dissolve bone and flesh at that rapid a rate.”

      “It’s new to science.”

      “It is not and I am presently looking at your toe, which is providing credible, visual evidence that it is still very firmly attached to your foot.”

      “It’s an illusion.”

      “I _highly_ doubt that is the case.”

      “Uh…the venom causes hallucinations.  It’s airborne and you breathed it in.”

      “No, and you are clearly trying to magnify your discomfort.  I know because you have tilted too far into the nonsensical.”

      “I did.  I admit it.  The agony has made my brain malfunction.  Or maybe the bug poison is melting my brain.  That could happen.  I saw it on the telly.”

      “Incorrect.  Even if there was a toxin with that particular effect, the likelihood it would have already wreaked that level of damage in the brief span of five minutes is staggering small.”

      “You don’t know that.  You’re not a bug expert.”

      “I am not an entomologist, that is true, however, if your brain was truly being impacted by the toxins, there would surely be further signs of impairment than silliness.”

      “What about _extreme_ silliness.  I can go there.  It’s easy.  I’ve had a lot of practice.”

      “I doubt that will convince me, nor will it ease your pain.”

      “Oh fine.  Make fun of the dying man.  I wish Mum was here.  She’d do the mum thing and that would be that.  I’d be right as rain.”

      “What do you mean by the mum thing?”

      “Kissing it to make it feel better.”

      “What a disgusting action to suggest!”

      “What’s disgusting about it?  Mum’s do all sorts of things like that.  Finish your half-eaten food, clean your poopy bum, wipe up your vomit… ok, you’re starting to look green and that I can see that with only the moon for light is actually worrying.”

      “Thank you.  There… there is a tangible, and visceral, difference between having an academic awareness of a thing and hearing it described.”

      “Yeah, sorry about that.”

      “Though… Mummy did apply a kiss to bruises or other injuries when we received them as a child.  It did not lessen the pain, but it… there was a notable comfort gained from the gesture, despite its unsanitary nature.”

      “Mum kisses are comforting, that’s true.  I could do with some comfort right about now, too.  Got any food in the secret cubby?  You may as well know now that I am an avowed stress eater.  And pain eater.  And sad eater.  Mad eater.  I like to eat.”

      “No, I am afraid I did not think to include food/ as we would be enjoying a meal upon our return.”

      “That’s ok.  I’ll comfort myself with happy thoughts.  That don’t involve bastardy bugs and their ginormous jaws of death.”

Greg took another sip of wine and breathed in because his toe did sting, though not as much as he was being loony about, but it was a nice chance to get more of a feel about how easily he could talk to Mycroft, something he’d not been at all certain about when they first met.  All the advice he’d been given was proving 100% sound and he was having a marvelous time… watching Mycroft bob back and forth like one of those water-drinking bird toys.  What the fuck?

      “Mycroft… is something wrong?”

      “I…”

      “Yes?”

      “I was…”

Still bobbing and… oh.  Oh oh oh oh oh… this was… interesting wasn’t nearly the word for it.

      “Trying to kiss my toe?”

      “P… perhaps.”

The amount of courage Mycroft was showing went straight to Greg’s heart and he set aside thinking about the full spectrum of possible implications to take one pure moment to admire someone pushing with all their might at their boundaries to do something both kind and amusing because it would make another person happy.

      “That’s an incredibly wonderful thing you want to do for me, Mycroft.  A bit hard, though?”

      “A b…bit.”

More like it’s almost making you break a sweat and that’s not worth a quick toe peck.  However…

      “How about this, then.  I’ll even make sure it’s clean and sterilized for you.”

Greg rubbed the tip of his index finger hard against his shirt, then dribbled a bit of wine on it, avoiding any more stains on trousers, and waved it about for some reason that seemed fitting for the ritual.

      “Is this more manageable?”

Mycroft tiny smile was really all the answer Greg needed, but the squaring of the writer’s shoulders and quick kiss on Greg’s fingertip also did the trick.

      “It is.  Thank you, Gregory.”

      “You’re very welcome!  And, we now have evidence that a kiss of any form, whether bestowed by a mum or not, is a great comfort to the insect-debilitated.  I feel _much_ better.  The comfort is positively filling my veins with anti-agony potion.  I promise to return the favor when you have the need, too.”

Which was, hopefully, a bit of insinuation that Mycroft would catch because, to Greg’s mind, it was about as normal for one adult to promise a healing mum-kiss as it was for an adult to bestow one.

      “You… you would do that?”

      “Absolutely!  I would never take something as magical and helpful as that and not offer it back in return.”

      “A moment, then.”

Taking a deep breath, Mycroft smacked his finger hard enough on the golf cart’s steering wheel for Greg to hear the sharp snap of the impact.

      “Oh dear. That was a touch more forceful than I had planned.”

      “Greg to the rescue!  Hold it up and… what’s that face for?”

      “I just remembered that you recently kissed the dirt.”

      “You’re right… I forgot about that, too.  Hold on…”

Rubbing his lips with his shirtsleeve and using his cleaned finger to wash said lips with several hefty drops of wine, Greg erased, he hoped, all signs of whatever nasty beasties that had Mycroft worried.

      “… how’s that?”

      “A most valorous effort.  You may continue.”

Which Greg did, with a bit more lingering than had Mycroft, especially when the first contact of lips to finger brought a soft, surprised intake of breath from the recipient of the kiss.

      “Better?”

      “I… that is…”

      “Yes?”

      “Much better, yes.”

      “Great!  And… anytime you need my kissing services, just ask and I’ll be very happy to see you satisfied.”

Shit!  That was the most suggestive he could have said!  Which… wasn’t completely outside the arena of what he was hoping to innuendoate into their association.  Which was the fakiest of fake words, but who the fuck cared when finger kissing had occurred!

      “Truly?”

      “Absolutely.  You just let me know where it’s needed and I’m the man to see it done and done properly.”

      “That… that is highly encouraging to hear.”

Was it?  Ok, no questioning anything at this point because the power of the ginormous jaws of death paled in comparison to the power of the almighty jinx.

      “I’m rather encouraged about it, myself.  Now, Mr. Holmes, might I pour for you another glass of wine?”

      “Yes, I would welcome that.  Though…”

Ok, what was up with Mycroft? He looked like he was screwing up his courage to declare he wanted to become a male stripper.

      “… my…”

      “Yeah?”

      “My finger still smarts a bit.”

My oh my… if that wasn’t a clear signal of something, then Greg Lestrade was the worst signal noticer in the history of… signal noticing.

      “Well, we can’t have that now, can we?”

The few seconds it took for Mycroft to swallow down the small spike of anxiety that burbled up were patiently weathered by Greg who waited for the finger to stop wavering between up and down and stay decidedly in the upwards kissing position to receive its second slightly lingering kiss.  This time, the intake of breath from the kissee wasn’t tinged with surprise.  It was tinged with something far different and music to the kisser’s ears.

      “How’s the smarting?”

      “Vanishing like mist in a thunderstorm.”

      “Good.  An achy finger does not make a happy combination with a fine glass of wine.”

      “No, it does not.  I am far more… content now.”

      “Contentment is grand thing.  Think your contentment might extend to making up another fake word for me.”

      “Hmmmm… that is a rather lofty request.”

      “I’m as bold as your curl.”

      “That is deserving of its own reward.  Let me think… the moon is most… gibborific tonight, is it not?”

      “Ok…rific is from terrific…”

      “Yes.”

      “And gibbo… I know this one!  Gibbous!”

      “Excellent, Gregory.”

      “You’re truly getting a feel for this, Mycroft.  All those clever fake words.”

      “Thank you, I am most proud of my efforts.”

And showing that pride with a smile as bright as the gibbous moon itself.  Not Greg had a clue what gibbous meant, since he’d only vaguely remembered it from some documentary he’d watched late at night at some point in his life, but it didn’t matter since Mycroft was happy, feeling confident and sporting two top-quality Gregory Lestrade finger kisses as a little bonus.  And, if he read things right, more kisses might be appreciated, in time.  Maybe not even a lot of time.  Just a bit of time to get comfortable with the idea and screw up a little more courage.  Which, apparently, Mycroft already had in hefty supply.

      “Gregory…”

      “What?”

      “There is another insect on your person.  I believe it, also, has nefarious intentions.  Its posture is positively antagonistic.”

Except when it came to insects with hostile intent.  Which was understandable.  And something that could lead to another finger kiss if he played his cards right.  Fortunately, a spot of gambling was very much something a certain Greg Lestrade enjoyed…


	28. Chapter 28

Exhaustion never felt so good.  But, if Greg didn’t get sleep soon, he was absolutely certain that even the warm glow of Mycroft’s gentle smile would whip his brain into a fussy-baby tantrum that would embarrass the world at large.  That point, though, was not yet reached and the goodbyes were about to begin.

Though… a goodbye was really the last thing he wanted.  It had been a _fabulous_ night.  Like a scene out of one of the countless films he’d made where the couple shares a nearly magical night that serves to bring a wealth of things into focus.  You found yourself looking at the other person differently.  There was something in the way you felt with them that changed with both a subtlety and train-wreck obviousness that shouldn’t be possible, but it was.  If this _was_ a film, there would have been the sharing some food item, a long walk by some body of water, and something unexpected, like happening upon a band playing or a fireworks display… all stupidly cliché, but sold the message that these two people had moved to a different place right before the audience’s eyes and the ‘rom’ part of the romcom was ready to kick into top gear.

 Not that they’d had a sappily-scripted night like that.  Not them.  They were non-fictional and neither of them could be called a paper-doll person, identical to all the others linked together in the long garland of white silhouettes holding hands.  Which was what those romcom couples were so bugger them and their foolish cliches and stupid fireworks-filled nights.  There were no actual fireworks in their night, but it was better, worlds better, than all the bands and fireworks the paper-doll romcoms thought were perfect and romantic.

Once Mycroft convinced him they’d actually arrived safely back at the house and his continued existence was not a final hallucination by his dying brain, they’d been presented with the welcome gift of a surprising amount of additional ‘alone’ time without the rest of the household dogging their heels.  The cinema room was showing a double bill, apparently, so they commandeered Mycroft’s study for something he’d not done before, but it was on his list to do again and soon, at that – listening to an audioplay together, but one Mycroft had already heard, so the bit of conversation here and there to discuss a point plot or character’s motives didn’t meet with the writer’s glowering disapproval.  The only disapproval had come when he burst out laughing at one segment and Mycroft didn’t understand why. Fortunately, that was rectified by a rather intricate and delicate bit of elucidation about why certain characters giggled at the term ‘sausage’ being used rather frequently during a breakfast scene after two of the party at the breakfast table had enjoyed a rather loud and randy time the night before, which the others were not actually supposed to hear.

Then it was several savage games of cribbage, a game he hadn’t played since he was a kid with his grandfather, but which came back to him fast enough that each inevitable defeat wasn’t as humiliating has he might have predicted.  With the occasional glass of something soothing and a great deal of spirited conversation… it was the sort of night you found yourself wanting to be your normal.  To be the thing you could look forward to when you came home after a brutal day.  Or a non-brutal day.  Any day would be perfect if it ended like that.  It was the sort of thing that settled a peace into your bones and, in this world, a sense of peace was more valuable than gold, diamonds or a truly superb cup of coffee.  Which sounded like the elixir vitae right now, but still not as good as that contentment at his center.

But… the goodbyes awaited and if he didn’t start now and with the person about to burst out of their skin with anticipation of a firm goodbye hug, deaths might soon occur.

      “Take care of yourself, Dolly.  No doing anything silly and depriving me of more of your scintillating personality in the future.”

      “Oh, Greg… Bertie and I are so happy to have met you.  You’ll visit again soon, right?  Mycroft will have to tell us when you plan to stop in, so we can visit, too.  It’s been grand, it really has.  I’ll be floating on a cloud for weeks!  Bertie’s going to have to tie a rope to my leg, so I don’t float away!”

      “I’m _sure_ we’ll meet again soon and, in all honesty, I’m already looking forward to it.  Speaking of looking forward to something, Mr. Holmes, I’m certainly anxious to get started with those books you recommended.  I’ll have plenty of reading time while I’m away and I already know which titles are going into my luggage thanks to you.”

Mycroft’s father didn’t appear as if he was about to burst out of his skin, but Greg was positive he saw a pleased gleam rise in the man’s eyes.  As with his son, the clues were there if you just took the time, and had the awareness, to look for them.

      “Your anticipation is to be expected, given my expertise in the area of books and my analysis of your personal tastes.  I was most methodical in crafting a suitable list of books to satisfy your intellect and sense of entertainment.”

      “You… did that?  How… efficient of you.”

      “Yes, it was.  You will phone Mycroft when you disembark the train in London to assure him of your safe arrival, will you not?”

      “I… of course!  Can’t let him worry that his guest ended a visit by dying in a tragic train crash or catching the plague from the coffee they have on offer.”

      “ _Yersinia pestis_ is not, to my knowledge, transmittable through coffee.”

      “One less thing for Mycroft and me to worry about, then!  Thanks for that.”

      “You are welcome.  Mycroft, I will be in your study when you have concluded your farewell with your… friend… and we shall debrief.”

The sniggering behind Greg, from the Duo of Evil, earned Anthea and Anderson a behind-the-back gesture from the actor that would have made his mother grab him by the ear for a lecture in proper behavior.  Would have been worth it, though.

      “Yes, Father.  An excellent idea.  Mummy, would you inform Mrs. Hudson that I shall be joining you and Father for your breakfast and remaining awake for another few hours to make a small start on my next chapter.  I suspect that anything involving an overabundance of dairy will not be conducive to my creative abilities, nor shall anything overly round.”

      “Just the dairy or anything fair game for the roundness, dear?”

      “It is an encompassing request.”

      “That means anything?”

      “It does.”

      “Alright, I’ll pass that along while we gossip.  Philip, you take care of this one and yourself, alright.  We want to see you again, too, and not any leaner than you are now.  In fact… send along your address to Mycroft who can pass it to me.  I’ll see you with little deliveries now and again to keep some meat on those bones of yours.  Greg’s got enough meat that he doesn’t need any Dolly Specials, but you… I hope you like cake!”

The whispered ‘fatty’ didn’t escape Greg’s notice and revenge was immediately vowed.  Especially since Greg was a staunch supporter of cake in any and all forms and it was going to be hard enough as it was to get his agent to share the spoils.

      “Thank you, Mrs. Holmes.  I absolutely love cake and will look very forward to each delivery.  For now, you can check with Mycroft for when we’ll be in the country, though, so nothing sits and in front of my doorstep and gets stolen by my bastard neighbors.”

      “Good point!  Mycroft’s good with schedules and charts and the like, so I’ll have him make up one for me of your comings and goings.”

Mycroft’s rolled eyes accompanied his mother’s exit, leaving him to stand there in a visible quandary about how to say goodbye to someone to whom he certainly did not want to bid farewell.  Since Greg was doing the same, Anthea decided that decisive action was necessary or they’d all be left standing like gnomes in an awkward and slightly unsettling garden.

      “I’ll get some departure and arrival dates from Anderson for you, Mr. Holmes, to start on your math project for your mum.”

Anthea nodded her counterpart towards the waiting car, which Charles had smartly entered to sit and enjoy his own book, rather than stand for what could be an awkward and slight unsettling week of goodbye dithering between the turtledoves.  The path to the waiting car, however, didn’t take Anthea anywhere near Greg, but an unnecessary detour and completely fake wobble-because-of-heels put her in a direct collision course with the actor to push him within goodbye-confession distance of her client.  Which he’d best make use of or he would not escape her wrath, which could be very wrathful, indeed.

      “Ummm… ok.  Well, Mycroft, I guess that’s my cue to leave.  It’s been… it’s been a joy, really.  I’m very happy we had this bit of time before I set about doing those reshoots.”

      “I agree, Gregory.  It was delightful, in every way, to have you here again.”

      “You have my number, so you can phone.  I’ll do that, too.  Not phone myself, of course, because that would be pointless and I’m not sure if it would work anyway, but phone you.  Do you do any of that Skype or Facetime or whatnot?”

      “Mummy demands it when she is feeling particularly maternal.”

      “Ok, then I can get Anderson to show me what to do for that, if you’d like.  I’ve never set it up to do myself, but I’ll learn it fast enough, I suspect.”

      “Hmmmm… that is a possibility.”

      “Is that a yes, you would like that or a no, kindly don’t bother?”

      “It is a yes, though, I have no idea the nature of the internet connection you will enjoy while away.”

      “Likely excellent.  This isn’t a remote location shoot, so I anticipate a stellar hotel with exceptional WiFi.  If not, my phone still works.  Or I can send a pigeon.”

      “What would that accomplish?”

      “Uh… I’d tie a little letter to its leg like they show in films, so he could deliver it to you.”

      “You were joking, I presume.”

      “Trying to, but not succeeding.  In any case, I have little doubt we’ll be able to communicate very easily.”

      “Good, for I would not be pleased if you were languishing in some savage land without the benefit of my good humor bolstering your spirits.”

He was serious, too.  Not a bit of joke in any of that.  The man was _cuter_ than a pigeon with a letter tied to its leg and didn’t leave feathers lying about when he roosted.

      “That would be a tragedy.”

      “It would, indeed.  Will… will you consent to visit again, once you return?”

      “Absolutely!  I’ll check with Anderson for the specifics of my schedule and find the first opportunity.”

      “Very good.  And I will ensure that my parents are _not_ present to create their standard level of distraction.”

      “Oh, they’re not bad.  It was fun to meet them, actually.”

The small rock that hit Greg’s back was on the trajectory to have only come from one place and that was the car currently housing his agent and Anthea.  Bastards.  What did they want from him?  No, strike that.  What they wanted was screamingly obvious, but they remained bastards until such time as he saw fit to lift that crown from their thick heads.

      “I am confident they feel the same.  It… it is rare for both Mummy and Father to harbor such a positive view about a person, however, they have indicated that they are highly pleased with the person you are, away from the personality they might have expected from your films.”

Mycroft reached back to touch the spot on his back where he was certain he’d felt a small tap, then looked on the ground behind him, feeling completely confused by the small bread roll that was now lying there looking up at him.  Somewhat sternly, at that.

      “I have been assaulted by bread.”

      “What?  Oh… yeah, looks like you have.  At least my pigeon will have something to eat when it gets here.”

      “The bread would surely have been consumed by another animal at that point.”

      “Very logical.  And zoological, too, which is especially impressive.  Well… I supposed I’d best join the others.  Hate to miss the train and have it be my fault.  I don’t think they’d let me forget that.”

      “No, Anthea surely would not.  She becomes most cross when her agenda has been upended by tardiness.”

      “As is right and proper.  So, yeah… I’d best be getting on.  Until we meet again?”

Greg extended his pinkie for a shake and found his own bit of confusion when Mycroft stared at the finger a moment, then at his feet, then tapped his nose three times before staring at his feet again prior to turning in a tight circle with his arms crossed across his chest, which occurred two more times before he, finally, bent over to give the finger a kiss.  Greg’s bubble of confusion, though was quickly ruptured by the shocked gasp that erupted behind him and had Greg surreptitiously waving at the car to shut the gaspers the fuck up before it the scared the man who seemed inordinately proud at how he’d concluded his arcane wizardly ritual and done something odd, but, in a very strange way, normal for a goodbye between people who’d navigated their own ‘this is it’ romcom evening of magic.

      “Ok… that works, too.  A goodbye kiss.  Done very nicely, in fact.  Shall I… reciprocate?”

      “Given I have bestowed one upon you, I would presume that would be the next step, to satisfy balance.”

There were certain moments in life that landed on you with a thunderous thump and you had two choices.  Ignore them or seize them with both hands.  Seizing was probably not a wise option, in Greg’s opinion, but a careful, close proximity of hands might not be the worst idea.  At least to see if more of a tentative clutch might be in order going forward.

      “Would you… would you mind if I demonstrated a different technique?”

      “For what purpose?”

Could you not be oblivious just once, Mycroft.  I’m shaking in my shoes here!

      “Ummm... to be… educational?”

      “Ah.  Education is something I value, and value highly, so do proceed.”

Locking eyes with Mycroft so he could catch an early-warning flare of distress, Greg slowly leaned forward and laid a kiss on Mycroft lips that was as soft as a breeze that couldn’t blow the fluff off a dandelion.

Oh shit, he was blinking again.

      “Mycroft… come back to me, alright?  Just enough to tell me… oh shit, I fucked up, didn’t I?”

      “I… I… I…”

      “Yeah?”

      “I do not… normally… use vulgarity.”

      “Ok.  Then you can ignore the shit and fuck and whatever else there was in there that was vulgar.”

      “Thank you.”

      “You’re welcome.”

      ‘You… you kissed me.”

      “I… I was trying to be educational.”

      “Oh.  I suppose I did make that request.”

      “Yeah, but I’m sorry if I overstepped.  Truly, I’m sorrier than you can imagine if I did something to upset you.”

      “Gregory…”

      “Yeah?”

      ‘You kissed me.”

      “True. The trueness of that hasn’t actually changed since you said it before.”

      “But… it was a kiss.  Of the kissing sort.”

      “Ummmm… I can’t argue with any of that, no.”

      “It would be most pointless for the kissing was rather evident and somewhat incontrovertible in its… kissiness.  Oh… I must consult with Father for the validity of that word.  I somewhat suspect I fabricated it, but it could have some archaic existence about which I am currently unaware.”

      “He seems very good for things like that.”

      “He is.  Father’s vocabulary far exceeds even mine.  He has been consulted many times by various august organizations for his assistance with language and the etymology of select words and phrases.”

      “I’m all about education.  Very important.  A very important thing for everyone...”

Greg’s brain began weeping and called forth his last glimpse of what had been a hopeful, marvelous dream of his future.  Even though it was only in that tiny, baby kernel stage, it had been an intoxicating vision of cozy nights at home with books, films, radio, games and a brilliant man with whom to share it.  Now he was watching it dry up and shrivel into one of those sad little peas in the package that you pulled out from the rest because there was no way it was ever going to become anything more than a shriveled, disappointing failure of a pea.  He’d done a proper job of mucking things up and had only himself to blame.  Well…he was going to lay some of the blame on the fucking boulder that collided with his back and made him think that support from the whackadoo section of the population was a good omen.  Mycroft looked ready to dissolve into tears.

      “… so, yeah, I suppose I’ll…”

      “Gregory… was e…education the only… was it only for that r…reason I received your kiss?”

The tiny breaks in Mycroft’s voice, threw a blinding spotlight on how much that particular question cost him in courage, for his dissolve-into-tears face had slid one spot down the emotion line into something that was exactly what Greg would expect for someone asking a question they knew was exceedingly consequential but were terrified to know the answer.  And, he knew, to the bottom of his heart, that he’d never take even the tiniest bit of that courage for granted, no matter how many times the man reached out beyond his boundaries for something important to him, successfully or not.  Now, it was a matter of summoning his own courage and answering honestly.  Something that may or may not be intelligible, what with the in-his-shoes shaking still making him feel as if he was riding out an earthquake in a pair of respectable shoes and no-hole socks.

      “No, no it wasn’t.  I kissed you… because I’ve wanted to do that for awhile and it seemed something you might want too, beyond on a finger, I mean.  I’ve been… I _am_ attracted to you, Mycroft.  I won’t lie about that.  Every time we talk on the phone or I visit… it’s more than just a nice time with a friend.  It’s warmer, closer feeling… more meaningful.  I’m not one of those fellows who studies human behavior or anything, but it’s seemed like… maybe you were feeling the same way.  If I’m wrong, I’ll apologize and mean it, sincerely, and I promise it won’t hurt our… oof!”

It was very hard to talk when someone was mashing their lips against yours and even harder when you were trying to stifle a smile at the mashing, which was perfectly Mycroftian in that there was no other physical contact whatsoever between them.  Eventually, Greg had to lean back slightly to lessen the pressure and start guiding the mashing into a gentler, and sultrier, version of the mash.  Which the person, heretofore known as the masher, seemed to quickly fall into and allow to continue for what was a blissful sliver of eternity.

      “Gr… Gregory…”

      “Yeah?”

      “Your lips…”

      “Yeah?”

      “You should use moisturizing balm.”

      “Oh… thank you for the advice.”

      “And…”

      “Yeah?”

      “When you return, will you kiss me again?”

      “I will and with softer lips, too.”

      “I…”

Mycroft quickly gave Greg another no-body-contact peck on his lips, then turned and bolted into the house so frantically that he left the door open behind him and plowed through the spying Dolly, Molly and Mrs. Hudson, who didn’t see so much as a ‘do pardon me’ for their near-death experience.

      “If you’ve broken my client, you pathetic children’s clown, I’m going to shave your head, your eyebrows and all your body hair before throwing you naked and trussed like a roast in front of the Daily Mail offices!”

Greg shot Anthea the gesture she deserved and hesitated a long moment before joining her and Anderson in the car.

      “Oh wonderful.  You’re in love.  You know how you being a besotted dolt makes my job harder.  I’m your agent, Greg, not your love-manager and I’m telling you know that I will not be ordering gifts, making love nest reservations or anything else that will make me vomit up my lunch.”

      “Both of you can share the enormous portion of fuck off I’m beaming into your heads.”

      “Pfft.  Your brain isn’t doing anything more right now than mooning over your snuggle monkey.  Anthea, do you think the village has any plush monkeys we can buy before we catch the train?  Greg is going to be useless unless he has something to cuddle with at night.”

      “If we can’t find one, Charles can.  Charles – your monkey goggles are defogged and ready to search, aren’t they?”

      “Always, Miss Anthea.”

      “There we go.  Greg will get his monkey to kiss and whisper secrets to and maybe he’ll function well enough not to get sacked from every project that was stupid enough to sign him in the first place.  Consider your own wage safely secured by plush-monkey love.”

      “I don’t have to cut the monkey in for part of my fee, do you think?”

      “Maybe a tenth of a percent?  How much can bananas cost?  That, of course, and anti-nausea pills. It _will_ be kissing Greg, so it’ll probably need the large size bottle of those.”

      “Are you two done?”

      “Nope.  Sit back and start your nap, client of mine.  We’ll let you know when it’s time to board the train.  Or, I’ll pay the station lad a few quid to strap you to one of those luggage carts and roll you aboard.”

      “I hate all of you.”

      “Shit, you’re already getting tetchy from snuggle-monkey separation.  Anthea, is there alcohol in here?”

      “There is and it’s perfect for early-morning monkey-missing.”

      “Pour him a large one.  It’s going to be a long day and the more unconscious he is, the better it’ll be for everyone.”

__________

Mycroft hurtled through the house at warp speed, nearly crashing into his study door before he was able to open it and, once he was on the other side, quickly flicked the lock then flew up to his reading space, capping off the startling of his father by hurling himself into his chair so forcefully, it rocked back on its back legs, coming precariously close to toppling backwards.

      “Mycroft!  Have you gone mad!”

      “I… Gregory kissed my face!”

      “Oh dear… properly?”

      “Very.”

      “He has exceeded my expected timetable by a full thirty-six percent.  This is highly encouraging.”

      “Timetable?  Thirty-six percent?”

      “It is inappropriate to be disappointed at that level of progress, Mycroft, as it is significantly beyond what my analysis predicted, and you are well aware of the thoroughness and validity of my analyses.  He is a bold fellow and that, it seems, is to his credit.  I… I find myself feeling most proud of him.”

      “I kissed first!”

      “You did?”

      “Yes.  Are you also proud of me?”

      “I am always proud of you, Mycroft, however… this _is_ unexpected.  Was it a face kiss?”

      “I… no.  It… I kissed his finger.”

      “I see.  Did he wash it first?”

      “I… dear me, no.  I… I utterly failed to remark upon it, either.”

      “Understandable.  When I first kissed your mother, I failed utterly to remark on the fact she was wearing lipstick.”

      “Ugh… the mere thought of that…”

      “The horror of the rather… pinguid… sensation did not register in the slightest until later.  Fortunately, the overall experience was sufficiently pleasurable that I was not overly bothered in the long term.”

      “Our kiss was also pleasurable, however, I recommended Gregory use lip balm, for his lips were a touch rough.”

      “You should take care for many of those are most tactilely unappealing during the kissing process.”

      “I shall have him wipe away any remaining residue before I again partake of his ardor.”

      “Which you seemed to have enjoyed greatly.”

      “I did.  I am not ashamed to admit it, either.”

      “Nor should you be.  There is nothing shameful about expressing affection, as long as it is done respectfully and does not disturb the meals of others in the restaurant at which you are dining.”

      “Mummy _was_ rather rash in her youth.”

      “Age does not preclude rashness, Mycroft.  Something you should have learned already with your Gregory.”

      “True, I stand corrected.  Speaking of rash, do you think it is Mummy pounding on the door?”

      “Hmmm… you locked it, I take it.”

      “It was an afterthought, but one that seems to have been somewhat prescient.”

      “It could be young Molly.  She possesses notable strength, from my observations.”

      “True, but I would predict she would be more controlled and rhythmic in her pounding.  Rather like someone beating a funeral drum.”

      “Hmmm… interesting.  Do you believe you should open it?”

      “If I do not, and it _is_ Mummy, the probability is high she will leave the house and attempt entry through a window.”

      “Are they also locked?”

      “They are.”

      “Then we have time before our conversation is interrupted.  Your mother is woefully lacking in housebreaking skills.  She is without a single recourse when she loses her key and I refuse to leave the library to let her into the house.”

      “You should instruct her in the appropriate skills.”

      “Perhaps.  However… once you and your Gregory desire a private moment for your amorous entanglements, a locked door shall pose no impediment for her nosiness.”

      “Dear heavens, I stand absolutely corrected.”

      “However, that does bring to mind… it is time, I feel, to refresh your memory on the mechanics of sex and the list of indicators you are properly pleasing your sexual partner.   With what sexual act do you believe you will commence that aspect of your relationship?  I am most well-versed in all manner of homosexual sex acts and will provide the necessary level of guidance to ensure your and Gregory’s satisfaction.”

      “I am unlocking the door.”

      “Your mother could have this talk with you, Mycroft.  Would you prefer that?”

      “<………….….>

      “Very well, I shall invite your mother to join us and…”

      “I suspect that Gregory would greatly enjoy oral sex.  We may begin there.”

      “Excellent.  I have read more than a few technical guides for that and speak as somewhat an expert on the subject.  Further, I have been the recipient of your mother’s technique for many years which, I must say, is most exceptional.  A truly laudable starting point.”

      “I… I need a drink.”

      “We have not even breakfasted.”

      “Alcohol is plant-derived, so I shall view it as a vegetarian option to begin my meal.”

      “Oh… I had not considered that.  Whisky for me, please.  Oh, and bring paper and pens.  I anticipate the need for the drawing of diagrams.”

      “Joyful.”

      “Yes, sex is very much a joyful thing.  I am pleased you recognize that as it will surely bolster your enthusiasm during the act.  Your Gregory is a lucky man, Mycroft.  A very lucky one indeed…”


	29. Chapter 29

      “Look at him, Anthea.  Just look at him.”

      “Our little monkey, with his own snuggle-monkey nestled cozily in his arms.”

Because, despite Greg’s hopes to the contrary, a plush monkey _was_ available in the village and was duly purchased to accompany him home.  No confessions would ever be made that Anthea’s statement about the monkey looking more like Mycroft than she would have predicted was very much in line with Greg’s own thinking and cuddling it while he drifted off to sleep on the train was… nice.  Cuddling with Mycroft would have been nicer, but this would do for now and do nicely, at that.

      “At least he’s getting some rest.  I was worried his brain would be too spinny to see anything for sleep and he’s got an interview tonight that I’d prefer he be coherent for.  It’s for _Vanity Fair_ , which always kisses his hairy arse very nicely in print, so I do try and keep them happy with lots of opportunities to do the kissing.  And… ooh, let me check, we should have some weekend predictions for his current film to give him something to crow about… yes!  Still going strong and looking to kick that DC Universe piece of shit into the rubbish and do it easily.”

      “That’s not saying much.”

      “No, but it’s our main competitor for the action-adventure audience, at least until next week when that _Escape from New York_ reboot comes out.”

      “Which is a blasphemy.”

      “In no uncertain terms.  It’s another example of crass money-chasing that proves the number of people with their fingers on the green-light switch are so stupid they should be illegal.  Between you and me, I strongly suspect it’s going to land with a thud.  Not even a bounce afterwards.  Maybe some overseas interest, but… I’ve seen some bits and pieces, talked to a few of the crew, and it’s crap.  Which is lovely for me and monkey-snuggler because there’s not much else for another two weeks that’s any real competition.  With the film still sitting on top of the box office and not likely to fall for a goodly while, it looks like another shiny feather in Greg’s cap and that’s definitely going to help push publicity and interest for his turn as Bell.”

      “Oh, I’m telling all my contacts to get their arses out and buy tickets because I’ll happily take all the ancillary help possible for pushing Mycroft’s project.  When is the studio going to start the hard publicity push?”

      “Soon.  They’re moving on things, but I suspect they don’t want to distract from Greg’s current film, so attention stays focused on it during this honeymoon phase.  If you don’t milk your first few weeks for all you can, you’re losing a massive money window and studios do _not_ like to walk away from money.”

      “Publishers don’t either.  Luckily, Mycroft’s publishing firm isn’t doing any tie-ins for the Blasphemy Reboot That Shall Not Be Named, so they won’t lose any of _their_ precious money on that debacle.  I did hear some chatter about their graphic novel division looking into approving a new line for that universe, but it stalled, probably waiting to get more information about what the film would do at the box office.  Since I never heard about the gears beginning to turn again, I suspect they caught a whiff of the same stinky wind you have and early on, too.”

      “Corroboration of my instincts is always a good thing.”

      “Now, let’s see what you mean about weekend pred… what?”

Anthea stared at her mobile and suspected that if Anderson had any juicy, and possibly problematic, information about their joint venture he wouldn’t have held it back since both their bank accounts and levels of headache depended on things going smoothly.

      “What? What do you mean what?”

      “Uh… did you check your messages?”

      “Yeah, why?”

      “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

      “Probably loads, but nothing I think you’d give a shit about.”

      “Oh, I think I give a _very_ large shit about this.”

Anthea shoved her mobile in Anderson’s face and got confirmation of her suspicions since blanching on command was not a skill humans readily possessed, meaning he wasn’t exactly in the loop for this one.

      “Size of shit has increased exponentially.  That must have happened yesterday or today.  Technically I don’t have to know everything about a film, but I generally do since Greg’s the biggest name on any of the films he’s in.  Maybe they were waiting until we were back in London to clue me in.”

      “Do you want to wake him for his own bit of clueing?”

      “No, he needs the rest.  But we _will_ have a chat once he’s awake, because this certainly will come up in his _Vanity Fair_ interview and he needs to be ready for it.”

      “We _all_ need to be ready for it.”

      “Yeah… yeah we will.  Fuck a large duck.”

      “If that makes you happy, go ahead, but ask me to watch and you won’t have anything left to do the fucking with.  Now, want to give me what you can for insider information, so I can make my own preparations?”

      “Want, no, because it’s all disgusting and horrifying.  But it’ll be all hands on deck for this, so… prepare to be disgusted and horrified.”

      “Glorious.  This isn’t making my day, Anderson.  You’re going to pay and pay large.”

      “It’s not my fault!  We’ll make Greg pay.  It’s his fault, in a roundabout way.”

      “All the contingency plans we’ll need to make…”

      “What’s your schedule look like tomorrow?”

      “Ummmm… free in the afternoon after four or so.”

      “Tapas and wine while we plan?”

      “You have a spot for that?”

      “I do.  One of my _special_ spots.”

Anderson’s special spots were something that had come to have a very warm place in Anthea’s heart.

      “Send me the address and I’ll meet you at five.  Make sure his wallet is ready because I’ll be arriving starving, ready for a drink and won’t settle for rubbish.”

      “I’d pickpocket him now, but he habitually stops for something greasy before an interview, to boost his mood, and if he’s not got his crap food fund on hand, he just might have a meltdown.”

      “Especially after learning about The Shit.”

      “I could actually hear the capital letters there.  Nicely done.”

      “One of my many talents.”

__________

      “Greg… oh, Gre-eg… time to wake up, you stupid berk.”

Greg swatted in the direction of his agent’s annoying voice and clutched his monkey tighter as he tried to cling to his happy sleep.

      “We’re nearly in London you evil toddler and I’ve got to get you presentable for your fans, who you know will be there, even though we have scarcely been out of the city for two days.”

      “Don’t wanna.”

      “I don’t wanna have to try and see you shaved, combed, clear-eyed and de-rumpled, but if I have to suffer, so do you.  Now, put down the monkey and let’s get started.”

      “No.”

      “Oh my god… Greg lift your lardy arse out of the seat and hand Anthea the monkey.”

      “ _My_ monkey.”

Which was held even closer, making Anderson wonder if his client was actually awake or functioning on some subconscious level now, while his conscious brain hid in the sleepytime bunker.  Anthea’s knuckle-wriggle in Greg’s ribs and snatching away of his monkey, however, brought Greg’s brain out of the bunker, frantically donning it’s battle helmet while trying to zip the fly of its battle trousers and not trip over its untied battle shoes.

      “Hey!”

      “I will keep your surrogate boyfriend company while you make yourself look like something other than a shabby old gent who skulks about the porn shops and sniffs the merchandise.  And the customers.”

      “That’s low, Anthea.  Low and cold.”

      “But accurate, so let your valet tidy you up for your adoring fans so you don’t scare any of the adults into sterility and children into a life of crime.”

Greg huffed loudly, but knew very well what he probably looked like at the moment and it was definitely in the ‘turning innocent children into criminals’ range.  Probably make them football hooligans and chocolate haters, too, so he had a civic obligation to do something about his pathetic self.

      “Fine!  Only because of the kids, though.  And see if you can find coffee for me.  About a soup pot’s worth should be enough.”

Anthea waved him off and glared at Anderson when he asked if she had a makeup supply on her, though, she privately admitted that his client could use a bit of concealer under his eyes.  The poor man was gorgeous, but nobody looked their best when they more resembled a zombie than a human.  At least he didn’t eat brains… that would endanger her own client and if she had to cut off Greg’s head to prevent him consuming the significant source of her income, she’d do it without mussing her hair or getting even the tiniest spot of zombie gore on her shoes.

__________

Anthea did have to admit, when the evidence was presented, that Greg looked better and actually approached a genuine human disguise.  Anderson’s skill with reviving a zombie were, apparently, top notch.

      “Just in time, too.  We’re about five minutes to arrival.”

Greg gratefully accepted his last-minute coffee from Anthea, but made a rude gesture anyway, to uphold principle.  Ignoring him, Anthea, instead, cut questioning eyes at Anderson who gave his head a little shake to indicate no conversations of consequence had occurred so any entertainment on their part from the developing situation would have to wait.

      “Thanks.  What time’s that interview tonight, valet?”

      “Seven or so.  It… I suspect it’ll be mostly a typical fluff piece, so you should be able to grin, wink, tell some of your sad jokes and we can be out of there fairly quickly.”

      “Perfect.  I go home, I sleep.  Wake up long enough to be a raconteur, then sleep some more.  Maybe shove a bite to eat into my face somewhere in there, but it’s not top priority.”

      “We’ll… we’ll see how that goes.  Ok, looks like we’re… fuck.”

Greg followed Anderson’s eyes out the window and sighed at the sight of the large crowd that had assembled to meet the train.  Then narrowed his eyes and peered harder at the crowd which was not only much larger than normal, but peppered liberally with the media, including camera crews.  Was one of those boy bands on board and he didn’t notice?  The Queen?

      “Fuck is right.  That’s… robust.  I wonder if there’s a ‘run for your life’ rear door on this train.”

      “I can ask.  There’s surely something for loading supplies or maintenance people that fifty quid will open for us.”

This sigh was louder than Greg’s first, but it was one that had all the long-resigned notes in his ‘this is my life’ personal soundtrack.  As much as he’d love to bolt out the back and flag a cab to take him home, it was the coward’s way out and his fans deserved better than a coward, no matter how much that coward really didn’t want to play superstar actor boy at the moment.  Well, the only way out was through, so he might as well start the through bit so he had even a tiny chance of seeing his bed before his interview tonight.

      “Nah, let’s just go.  Publicity, right?  Films to talk up, Anthea might be able to grab a reporter or two and get some free press for Mycroft and his books.  It’s a good thing, really.  At least, that’s how we’re going to look at it.  A very large number of opportunities are out there right now for good things to happen and we’d be stupid to let that fall by the wayside.  Do you… either of you, by any chance, see any of those large blokes who are beautifully suited to escort harried actors to their car when there’s a million people hoping to make that very thing not happen quickly?  Or at all.”

Greg’s hopeful, slightly queasy smile, wasn’t met with anything in return but the ‘poor sad man, shakes of Anthea’s and Anderson’s heads as they gathered their few personal items to carry with them off the train.  Both debated raising a certain issue, but decided that Greg had enough on his plate.  Then, they remembered that The Shit was learned from media reports so the fans, and media, were certain to already now and their monkey-snuggler could likely use a heads-up before venturing into the fray.

Unfortunately, as both opened their mouths to provide that little heads-up to Greg who, they bit off a truly eye-watering, in-stereo curse because the actor couldn’t hear their potential proclamations, having already gathered his fortitude and darted off the train to greet his fans and, fingers crossed, alert any potential studio escorts to his presence.  What he was _not_ expecting was his former flame, Janine Hawkins, to come striding through the crowd to give him a long, full kiss, much to the approval of the crowd and the media, if the hoots, cheers and camera flashes were to be believed.

      “J… Janine?  What the fuck are you doing?”

      “Smile, lover, the cameras are watching.”

      “I don’t care who’s watching!  What do you think you’re pulling?”

      “Nothing!  Just a little publicity for our upcoming film.”

      “Our film?  You and I aren’t in any projects together.”

      “Au contraire.  I was just signed yesterday to that tasty little project you’re doing based on that mystery novel.”

      “WHAT!”

      “Isn’t it great!  You and me together again?  Or not, I really couldn’t care less about that, but I _do_ care about getting a quality part on a film that I’m hearing could be one of those gems that opens a lot of doors for _more_ quality parts.”

      “Then go find your own fucking film and leave mine alone!”

      “Pfft.  You told me, yourself, that I was good.  Better than the rubbish I was being locked into.  And I certainly had to listen to you moan enough about being taken seriously as an actor, when you weren’t moaning for other reasons, that is, so I decided I wasn’t going to wait until I was your elderly age to get some serious roles on my record.

      “I’m not old!”

      “For a man, maybe not.  But for a woman… I’m not getting any younger and my shelf life for the shit I’m normally offered is racing towards its expiration date.  If I want to keep working, I have to have something else to show besides my beautiful face, exquisite body and ability to sell on screen that any actor, no matter how ugly, fat or stupid is the most amazing specimen of manhood ever created.  This was a chance and I took it.  Now, shut up, smile, put your arm around me and remember we have a film to sell.”

Greg threw a look over his shoulder at Anderson and Anthea who both shrugged as he was dragged forward towards the microphones, cameras and excited fans.  Given he’d be occupied for awhile, and could take care of himself despite having his day flipped over like one of those pitiful film scenes when someone actually flips a table for whatever stupid reason they thought was valid at the moment, the agents decided to mingle in the crowd and get some preliminary opinions on the new project and what Greg’s core fan profile was hoping to see for the film and the actor’s role in it.  Never a bad time to do market research, hold an impromptu focus group, that sort of thing. Besides, it kept them from raiding the studio-provided car for whatever alcohol it held, given they’d surely be having their fair share later on and it would be polite to leave the bulk of the intoxicant for the man now igniting his star power as full force as he could for the crowd.  And, given Anderson noticed some people he recognized from _Vanity Fair_ in the crowd, he could leverage that for a postponement of the formal interview, so his client could simply go home and die.  Greg had said more than once, once upon a time, that Janine would be the death of him and, today, that might actually prove true…


	30. Chapter 30

Ugh… was this karma?  Had he done something staggeringly horrid in a past life that was now taking the opportunity to enact its payback?  Felt like it.  He was already running on the last, vaporous wisps of petrol fumes then… Janine.  At least Anderson got his interview cancelled tonight so he could just hide from the universe and its slings and arrows, all of which seemed to be focused on the massive target someone had, apparently, painted on his back.

To be fair, though, he couldn’t disagree with the casting decision.  Janine actually looked the part of the character in Mycroft’s book.  A dark beauty with the sort of smile that could warm your heart or freeze it to ice.  Janine was smart, too, like the character, and able to sell her intelligence on the screen, though it was generally used as a prop for the not-as-smart hero to save the fucking day.  The murdering wife in Mycroft’s book was able to play the devoted, grieving widow while manipulating the investigation away from her and towards her husband’s lover with a deftness that any criminal mastermind would appreciate and Janine was someone who could convincingly play that out on screen.

And… he couldn’t deny they had screen chemistry.  Not necessarily romantic chemistry, but they played off each other well, had a good rhythm and sense of understanding that made their scenes have that natural feel that helped draw in the audience and sell the story.  That would be especially important for this film which didn’t have any of the usual rubbish to fill time and entertain the people like car chases, explosions or aliens-vs-mutants battles royale.  The scenes with Bell and the widow were many, intense, nuanced and a lot had to be said with body language, facial expressions, inflection choices… Janine _was_ a smart pick to pair with him for that.  She was a _very_ good actress, despite being wasted by most studios and he couldn’t, not for a million quid, say she didn’t deserve a chance to prove that.  It was why _he_ chased the bloody film in the first place!  It’d be hypocritical to say she didn’t have the right to do that or try to leverage his own influence towards getting her replaced.

Of course, that meant there was the Mycroft issue to address and that was an issue that had to be handled delicately.  The probability was low that Mycroft was at all aware of today’s forty-year interlude between exiting the train and entering the car where his traitorous fellow travelers had finally decided to use as their hiding, and drinking, spot.  Though, they did set aside one full bottle of a particularly nice scotch for him to use as he pleased, and he pleased the hell out of that bottle before they rolled him out onto the pavement in front of his house.  Now, though, happy buzz in his head or not, he needed to set things out for Mycroft and do what he could to ameliorate the situation.  Maybe drinking that much scotch wasn’t a good idea before this conversation.  Or maybe it was the best idea in the universe.  At this point, it didn’t matter because his fingers had decided his brain was fucking useless and were already using his mobile to set this on-fire-and-wrapped-in-fireproof-angry-weasels ball in motion.

      “Ah, Gregory, I take it you are safely returned to London.”

      “I am safely returned and just stepping into my happy home.”

      “As the train would have arrived some time ago, I take it you were occupied with matters of personal business, errands to which to attend, and other like concerns.”

      “Uh… concerns, yes.  But not the sort I expected.  Or… I did expect some of them but there… well, there was something I didn’t expect and… the unexpected one was… a sticky wicket, or could be… I can’t be sure because I’m incredibly tired and a bit drunk and…”

      “Gregory, are you, at least, seated?  I am highly concerned that you are suffering some degree of mental collapse and I would not wish to see that paired with a physical collapse that would leave you vulnerable to housebreakers or unable to flee your dwelling in case of fire or natural disaster.”

That was dramatic, but the sentiment was appreciated.

      “I am not seated, but… ok, getting a sugary soda and not a beer… and… now.  Now, I am seated and safe from physical collapse.”

      “Excellent.  Now, what has discombobulated you to this degree?”

      “Ummmm… I… you know how it is sometimes…”

      “No.”

      “Yeah, I don’t see how you could, not because you don’t have experience with this sort of thing though I don’t actually know if that’s true or not, but I suspect not, and it’s not an insult, so please don’t take it that way, alright.”

      “I have no idea how to ‘take’ any of that as… truly, I doubted that anyone on Earth could be as confounding in conversation as Mummy, however, you have handily matched her as a verbal whirligig.”

      “I know and I can’t blame the scotch for that, either.  Let me start again…”

      “I would appreciate that.”

      “Me too.  Have you… I suspect you haven’t watched anything online or on the telly today, correct?”

      “Incorrect.  Only twenty eight, now… twenty _nine_ minutes ago I watched a video about new technologies for digitizing various rare and valuable texts to make them available to larger audiences through the internet.”

      “Oh.  That sounds interesting.”

      “It was.”

      “Yeah.”

      “Gregory?”

      “What?”

      “Are you going to continue with your original conversation or are you going to fall asleep?”

Greg looked longingly at his monkey, which was happily sitting on a chair next to his overnight bag, watching him fail utterly as a speech-capable human.

      “I won’t fall asleep.  Hold on a moment, though… you’re at your computer?”

      “I am.”

      “Which means you’re still awake.”

      “I am now terribly concerned, Gregory.”

      “No, it… I just realized the time and that you’re actually awake.  It didn’t occur to me that you’d usually be asleep right now.”

      “Ah, yes.  It is a rare day, in some ways.  Mummy and Father have decided to remain another day or two and… given the… events of the morning… I have found myself not terribly able to sleep.  My glee was far too agitating to permit a restful mind, though I cannot say I mind that in the slightest.”

Shit.  That made this all the worse!  Better in a host of ways, but worse in one and that was the one that was shrieking in his face like a banshee who’d just stubbed its toe on the leg of their sofa while doing the in-the-dark walk to the loo.

      “I have to admit it’s had me gleeful, too.  Very gleeful, in fact.  But… do me a favor and go on YouTube…”

      “Must I?  It is _such_ a cesspool.”

      “Not always.  There’s educational videos there and clips of stuff like your book digitizing thing.  Just go there and… yeah, ok, this _will_ open a cesspool now that I think about it, but search for my name, use Greg not Gregory and I suspect some new stuff will be at the top.  If not, filter for the most recent stuff.”

      “For what reason am I doing this?”

      “Something happened today when I got off the train and you might as well see it while we can talk about it and I can explain what’s going on and what it will and won’t mean.”

      “That is most mysterious.”

      “Which you enjoy.”

      “True.  Very well, I shall do my most waterproof garments and wade into the cesspool of humanity.  I am inputting your name and… dear me.  Gregory, have you any idea how many, I believe they call them hits, appear for your name?”

      “Yeah, I do.  And… I won’t ask you to promise me not to go frolicking among them because that’s not terrible respectful to you, but I’ll caution you that the cesspool is thick, deep and the stench it emits will singe your nose hairs.”

      “Gregory… are there… are you saying there are… compromising videos of you present on this accursed site?”

      “Not in the way you’re thinking, videos of me shagging someone in an alley or something, but there’s loads of… sometimes fans get a bit creative and… do things with clips of my interviews or films and… they’re talented!  I’ll give them that… you’ll find a lot of shagging and other things implied or… pretty explicit and… you don’t need to see any of that.  It’s…”

      “Salacious?”

      “Oh, it’s about forty leagues down the lane from salacious so… just keep imagining it all as a cesspool and leave it well enough alone.  Ok?”

      “I…”

      “Now you’re curious, aren’t you?”

      “I will not deny that.  It is a rather intriguing area you have opened for my examination.”

      “Please don’t examine, Mycroft.  Or… I tell you what.  Ask your dad to do the examination and he can give you a completely objective opinion about whether you should wade in or not.”

      “A stellar suggestion.  Father is a keen analyst for any manner of information presented in any known form.”

      “Then we have a deal.  Now, are you seeing the very recent stuff?  The stuff from today?”

      “I believe… yes!  I note the time for their arrival in the pool of cess is today and for two of the first ten or so I see you standing outside of the train. Though… Gregory, I am most confused by the titles for these.”

      “Something I absolutely expect and that’s why I’m here to… talk to you about it.  Go ahead and play one and I’ll be ready to answer your questions.”

      “I am now, again, becoming concerned, for you are rarely this serious of tone.”

      “I won’t say it’s not warranted, but… it actually isn’t, though you might think so at first.  What I promise, though, is that there really is no reason to be concerned, none at all.  Not a single bit.”

      “Hmmmm… I shall follow your instructions, but I shall also avail myself of a humbug to soothe any possible distress.”

      “That’s a great idea.  Let me know… when you’re done with the video.”

Not that Greg had to wait for a formal announcement since Mycroft’s startled exclamations were useful guideposts for the progress of the video, which was most likely him getting off the train, getting attacked by Janine’s face, then the announcement that she was now signed to a role for the film which she, most professionally, failed to mention was the actual murderer.  When the small shrieks, gasps and soft choking subsided and the silence lingered long and loud, Greg began to worry that Mycroft had suffered some form of heart attack and more was dead because this conversation than the phone line.

      “Mycroft… are you still there?”

      “Oh… yes.”

      “Ok… good.  So… whatever you want to ask right now, go ahead and ask.”

      “Gregory…”

      “Yeah…”

      “That woman…”

      “Janine, yeah…”

      “Why was I not informed that she was being considered for my film?”

What?

      “What?”

      “The widow is an immensely important character and I should have been consulted on potential choices before the final decision was made.”

      “That’s your biggest concern!”

      “What else should it be?”

      “She kissed me!”

      “I… true, but the woman is clearly manipulative, and the entire business was obviously coordinated to provide maximum exposure of the sort to promote the wagging of tongues.  The positioning of the various cameras, her knowledge of that positioning so she could pose to best effect when they were photographing or filming the malarkey… I have no doubt she shall be a profound detriment to this film and I will instruct Anthea to have her sacked immediately.”

      “No… no, that’s not an option.  Or a good idea.”

      “I disagree.  Such a person is so wedded to drama and personal recognition that they cannot, in any manner, muster the maturity and control to properly present my murderer on screen.  I shall not stand for it, Gregory, I simply will not.  I have been very clear about my views on my film and they have not swayed by even a miniscule amount.”

      “You… ok, you’re not at all jealous that she kissed me?”

      “No.”

      “What if I told you that she and I are former… lovers.”

      “I am already aware of that, so I do not see how it could impact my current thinking on the subject.”

      “YOU KNOW!”

      “Mummy has been most informative about the non-acting aspects of your life.”

Dolly… dragging all his dirty laundry out into the open.  Which was now turning into a good thing, so no glaring at the imaginary figure of Mycroft’s mother and making evil-eye gestures at her grinning face.

      “And that doesn’t bother you?”

      “No.  I am not so naïve as to have expected you led a chaste life prior to our… becoming romantically entwined.  Further, you are a man of honor and would not have undertaken our entwining if you were not highly certain it was the proper decision.  That sense of honor would, also, preclude such an immediate betrayal of my affections, especially in such a crass and public manner.  If you worry that the robustness of your sexual life is something I find particularly distressing, rest assured that I do not, given you appear disease-free and, undoubtedly, would have informed me if that were not the case, even if Father’s interview neglected to probe that particular question.”

      “Ok… ok that makes a weird sort of sense and… thank you?”

      “I suppose thanks are merited, so you are most welcome.  Now, back to matters of importance…”

      “No trying to sack her, Mycroft.”

      “I shall if it suits me and it suits me very well at the moment.”

      “Nope, that’s not appropriate in the slightest.  Have you seen any of her films?  Talked to me about her since I would be a good source of information about who she is as a person and how talented she is as an actress?”

      “She positively reeks of opportunism.”

      “That has nothing to do with acting talent.”

      “It does if she has relied on chicanery and manipulation to secure and maintain employment.”

      “That’s not true, at least not for her.  Yes, some people do rely on things other than talent to get by in the industry, but not Janine.”

Though she happily uses chicanery and manipulation in her personal life and to make working with a true arse of a director, producer or co-star easier to bear, but you, Mycroft, do not need to know any of that at this point.

      “Subtlety, Gregory… the role requires subtlety, grace, the ability to project an almost saintly image then shift that projection to something so cold and ruthless that the reader… audience… is both shocked and repelled.  The skill necessary to accomplish that… flouncing about and shaking one’s hair comes nowhere near the necessary standard.  It could not see the necessary standard with a telescope!”

      “Janine can do more than flounce.  That’s why she wants the part, actually.  She wants to do some real acting and not just be a pretty face to reflect well on whatever male lead she’s working with.  And, like me, if you can see some of her earlier stuff, you’ll realize how good she is when given something more to do than be the smart-and-sexy female who spends half her time complimenting the hero while rolling her eyes behind his back because he’s just parroting her ideas like they were his own.  Look at her again, Mycroft, too, and tell me she doesn’t look like your character.”

Mycroft huffed but cut his eyes back to his monitor, letting bits of the video clip play and grudgingly admit that Greg had a semblance of a point.

      “She is too buxom.”

      “Wardrobe can scale back the buxomness.”

      “And too short.”

      “Nope.  That’s just you being evil.”

      “Her chin is discomforting.”

      “Evil.”

      “She has asymmetrical eyes.”

      “More evil.”

      “I wager her voice is that of a crow who gained a highly unfortunate addiction to the crudest form of cigarette.”

      “Filling the atmosphere with all forms of toxic, toxic evil.”

      “Gregory!  I will not abide my film being besmirched by a substandard performance!”

      “You thought _I_ was going to be that substandard performance and that opinion changed, didn’t it?”

      “Only due to your courageous determination and creative use of personal skills to beguile me into deepening my knowledge of you as both a man and actor.”

      “And, until then, you had an incomplete picture, so you thought I was rubbish.  It’s the same thing here.  And, I suspect, you have even less evidence about Janine than you did about me since you didn’t have time to do any research.  Anderson didn’t even know about her being cast, so I know you didn’t have a chance to view anything she’s done.”

      “I see.  I now suspect a conspiracy to bring the most villainous form of doom upon my film.”

      “Wrong.  They made… I’m not particularly happy to say they made a smart decision, but they did.  I’ve worked with her before and she can be a pain in the arse during her free time, but not on set.  She’s a professional who works hard, takes her role seriously no matter how small or, frankly, insulting it is.  I don’t think Janine has aspirations of being the next Maggie Smith, but she does want to keep working as an actor for as long as she can and wants to, which won’t happen in the sorts of parts she gets now.  It’s not fair, not in the slightest, but female roles lean heavily towards young and… I’ve seen scads of good actresses unable to get work once they pass a certain age.  Unless they’ve carved out something else for themselves, acting-wise I mean, they’re done in the industry.  It’s cruel and its wrong, but that’s the reality and it’s not changing as quickly as I or they would like.”

      “My film is more important than simply a rung in this woman’s ladder of success!”

      “It’s me you’re talking to, Mycroft.  Me.  I know how important the film is to you.  You _know_ how aware I am of that, so if I’m saying this isn’t a bad casting decision and that Janine will do a great job with the part, you have to have some degree of confidence that it is.  I wouldn’t promote her if I didn’t believe the choice was a good one; I’d be right there with you, and Anderson, working to get her taken off the film and finding out who signed her in the first place, so we could impress on them what a profoundly poor decision they’d made.  And what would happen if they did it again.  But, I’m not doing that, am I?”

      “Perhaps it is some residual affection that is clouding your judgement.”

      “Nope, because there wasn’t really any affection there to begin with.  Not the sort you’re thinking about, at least.  We parted on good terms, and when our paths cross, which they do now and again, we’re cordial and have a nice time chatting, but that’s all.  That’s all it ever was really.”

      “Besides the sex.”

      “Yeah, but you don’t have to have affection for that.”

      “No, that does seem to be the case, I will admit.  I am most distressed about this, Gregory… I… it is not that I lack faith in your perception, it is simply that I…”

      “You don’t have information to know for certain that my perception would line up with yours for this situation?”

      “Succinct.  And correct.  Once I was able to interact with you, I could to confirm your opinion that you were well-suited for the role.  Until then, however, Anthea was a forceful advocate and, though I have known her for many years and fully trust her intellect and instincts, I could not allow her word to stand as the only foundation upon which to base a changing of my mind.”

      “I can understand that.  At the end of the day, you’re the only one who truly knows your own mind and when something is this important, it’s hard to place all your trust in someone else’s assurances.”

      “Then we are agreed.”

      “I… about what, exactly?”

      “That I shall meet this Janine person and render the ultimate verdict.”

      “No.  And, in case I slurred that a bit, here it is again – no.”

      “I counter with yes and it must be soon, so the role can be recast when… if… I find her unsuitable.”

      “First, the likelihood Janine will traipse out to Royston Vasey is zero and second…”

      “I have seen that program!  Very droll, Gregory.  Your fatigue has not dimmed your sense of humor.”

      “Thank you, now back to the second thing, which is that my arse is going to be away for several weeks, so…”

      “Precisely!  Alacrity must be the watchword of the day!”

      “Nope.”

      “Gregory!  I must properly vet her!”

      “You can’t have final say on the entire cast, Mycroft!  Besides, it’s not in your contract.”

      “There are several nebulous clauses that successfully could be argued in court _does_ allow me final say.”

      “Mycroft… please…”

      “Did you not, only a moment ago, argue that your former paramour is simply trying to gain for herself something she desires?  Why should the situation be different for me?”

      “That’s not what I’m saying.”

      “I believe it is.”

      “No… because I do agree that you have a right to want and try to make this film a success.  Just… look, how about this?  They’re not going to be filming anything for quite awhile, so let’s wait until I’m back in the country and, maybe, I can convince her to come with me for a visit so you can get to know her.  Maybe she and I can run a few scenes, in a roundabout way since I somewhat doubt we’ll have a definitive script by then, and you get an idea of how it will come together when we’re actually in costume and in front of the camera.”

      “It is not idea without merit, but I see no reason to wait such an extended time for the visit to occur.”

      “I do, it’s called me needing to sleep, get ready to actually _be_ away for several weeks and I have a couple of engagements that I can’t set aside between now and hopping the plane.  One of which is an event for your literacy charity.  So… later, alright?”

      “But… you do not leave for _several_ more days.  Surely that is sufficient for a brief excursion.”

      “Possibly, but it will take me time to convince Janine to even agree to come out to visit you and… I can’t manage another trip right now, Mycroft.  I’d love to see you again, positively adore it.  If I could have, I would have stayed those several more days so we could have had more time together.  I would have been thrilled for that, but I can no more set aside my work obligations than you can and that also means I have to find time to get some rest.  That will be today and each of the few nights I’m still in London.  As soon as I’m back, though, I’ll be on my way to see you, I promise that.  Not tomorrow, though, or the day after, not matter how much I might want to.”

      “I see.”

      “Really, or are you just being polite?”

      “No… no, I comprehend your viewpoint and cannot find with it any fault.”

      “Are you angry with me?”

      “Oddly, I find that I am not.  I respect your argument, though I do not wholly agree with it at this point, and am content to set the matter aside until next we can discuss it face to face.”

      “Thank you for that, Mycroft.  Honestly, I’m not trying to be difficult and the last thing in the world I would ever do is hurt you or take a single step in a direction I think would hurt the film.  And I will happily talk to you about this as much as and as long as you want, in person, so you can watch my expressions to see if I’m giving you my full and honest effort.”

      “That will be acceptable.  Now, you should run along and seek your bed.  The timbre of your voice has shifted several times during our conversation and I suspect it indicates that you are growing more and more fatigued.”

      “You are very observant and entirely correct.”

      “As expected.  Do enjoy a peaceful rest, Gregory.  Shall I… would it be inappropriate to phone you tomorrow to learn if you are doing well?”

      “It would not, at all, be inappropriate.  I should be home all evening, so ring me after your breakfast and we can have a chat.  Isn’t it a writing day, though?”

      “It is, but I have accomplished several hours of productive work today that shall offset the loss of time tomorrow.”

      “Very efficient.”

      “Yes, it is.  Goodnight, Gregory.”

      “Goodnight, Mycroft.”

Setting down the receiver, Mycroft narrowed his eyes, thought a moment, ran his hand across his crystal globe and making circular motions over its surface until his brain completed running its current algorithm and it produced a result that was to the writer’s liking.  A quick hop up from his chair had Mycroft walking to the bell pull on the wall to give it three quick tugs and he retook his seat while he waited for his full house staff to present themselves in his study.

      “If my chicken goes dry, Mr. Holmes, you’ll be eating it for every meal until the last dusty, stringy bit has gone down that throat of yours and without a single potato to make it even close to a happy experience.”

      “I shall file that with the rest of your threats, Mrs. Hudson, and give it the same level of due consideration.  Now, Charles… how soon can you provide me with information concerning an actress named Janine Hawkins?”

The look the staff shared was tinged with a thick layer of ‘oh shit he knows,’ but if he didn’t know _they_ knew, everyone would be the better for it.

      “It depends on what you want, how soon you want it and what you’re willing to pay, sir.”

      “A general profile, as soon as possible and I am not inclined to be miserly.”

      “Financials?”

      “Only a cursory overview.”

      “Then I can have something for you in a few hours, sir.”

      “That will do.  Molly, kindly inform your cousin, the police sergeant, that I will be vacating the house for a few days and that I would appreciate an extra eye be kept on the property to ensure my absence is not capitalized upon by tourists and… looky-loos.”

      “Uh… alright, sir.  I’ll phone Roger right away.  How… how long are you going to be gone?”

      “ _We_ shall be in London for, perhaps, three days, though I cannot, at this time, provide a firm estimate of our return date or time.”

      “Oh, we’re all going?”

      “Yes, so do plan accordingly.  Mrs. Hudson, kindly pack my luggage and ensure at least one rather formidable suit is included.  Also, I will be avoiding green of any form during this ordeal.  Please plan accordingly.”

      “For meals, too?”

      “Hmmm… I might make a single exception for broccoli, for I do enjoy the manner in which you prepare it.”

      “Alright, we’ll be at the London house, I take it?”

      “Yes.”

      “You know your parents are going to want to come to London with us, don’t you?”

      “Alas, yes I do.  However, I can foist them upon Sherlock and then send them straight home rather than return with us, so the household might return to normal once we are again in residence.”

      “We’ll need two cars.”

      “They shall take the train.  Father finds train travel rather invigorating and Mummy always finds a captive audience a grand thing for her stories.”

      “True.  Alright, then, I’ll let them know and help your mum get their things together.”

      “Very good.  That shall be all for now.”

Three people turned, shared a smirk, then quietly made their way out of Mycroft’s study.  Trips to London were always fun and this one was on course to be very fun, indeed.  Mr. Holmes was on a mission and that didn’t bode well for either his new boyfriend or the boyfriend’s former girlfriend.  But it _did_ bode well for the ones who got the free entertainment from all of it.  And the chance to paint the town a vibrant shade of red when they had a free hour or two and their employer was otherwise occupied…

__________

Bed.  One very large and very empty bed beckoned and with a voice like the most insidious of sirens.  Maybe a quick shower first, then many long and blissful hours of…

      “You blackguard.”

Sherlock!

      “What the fuck are… ow!”

The only thing Greg had expected less than Sherlock’s voice behind him in his house was one of Sherlock’s gloves smacking him across the cheek.

      “I call you out sir, for the betrayal of my brother and his trust.  You may have the choice of weapons, however, I do hope you choose a battle of wits for the time to your defeat would be infinitesimally small and I can return to my experiment before it proceeds to an… unfortunate conclusion.”

      “Sherlock!  You said that experiment wasn’t dangerous.”

      “Wrong, John, I said I did not anticipate it would be _deadly_ and, since we are not present to be immediately killed by the outcome, I cannot be accused of lying.  Now, villain… prepare to face my wrath.”

This wasn’t going to be quick was it?  No, there was absolutely no chance his misaligned stars were going to permit that.

      “Can I, at least, sit for the wrath, lad?”

      “No.”

      “Lovely.  But, given the way today’s gone so far, I can’t say it’s surprising…”


	31. Chapter 31

      “Thanks for this, John.  Really, not something I’m ever likely to forget.”

      “Sorry, Greg, but nothing I said was going to keep Sherlock home once he saw a certain bit of video footage, but I did insist on coming along in case you were actually stupid enough to agree to a duel and my medical services were required.  At a very reasonable rate, though, I promise you.”

      “Funny.  Very funny.  Let me guess, you two saw a clip of me at the train station today and…”

      “Kissing a harlot!”

      “No, Sherlock, not true.  If you’re going to toss out insults, make them accurate.  First, I was the kissee and not the kisser.  Second, Janine’s not a harlot, though she did a tremendous job playing a very high-class one in that spy film she was in two... no, three years ago.  Besides, why would you assume I was betraying your brother in any way with that stupid publicity stunt?”

      “Mummy earlier informed me of your mouth-mauling and, when I completed retching the entire contents of my stomach into the toilet, I realized that the situation put my tedious brother… he is pedantic, pompous, supercilious and fat, but he does not deserve to be cuckolded by a deceitful, and untalented, thespian.  I suspected matters would take a turn for the odious and I was proven correct even more rapidly than anticipated, which deepens the blackness of the mark on your eternal ledger.”

Dolly… well, she could fuck off if she thought she’d be getting a Mother’s Day gift from him!  Not… not that was in any way appropriate, because it wasn’t… yet… or ever!  But the fucking off could still happen and happen with bells on.

      “Putting that lunacy aside for now, how’d you even know where I lived?”

      “I obtained your address from the Register of Despoilers and Debauchers.  And, I shall inform you now that you live in a sty.”

      “It’s not a sty!  It’s… unique.”

      “Wrong.”

      “Right.  Not many people live like this, so the word fits.”

      “Not many people live in a malodorous, cavernous… how many murders have been committed in this hovel?”

      “None.  It was a hat factory.”

      “Dunce caps?”

      “Ha ha ha.  It’s amazing, though, isn’t it?  Brick, high ceilings, loads of massive windows, great acoustics, quiet area… I know it’s not what most people think of when they imagine a film star’s house, but it’s perfect for me.”

      “How many rats did you make homeless when you slithered into this ghastly structure?”

      “It took a bit of work to get it into shape, but all houses need that, even the big mansions you see on the telly.  Plumbing’s shot, roof leaks, windows don’t fit well so the wind blows right through… not this old girl.  She is tight as a drum structurally and… beautiful.  She’s a natural beauty and I adore her.”

      “Proving you are blind as well as lacking any sense of artistry or architectural elegance.” 

      “Look at those arches!  They’re magnificent!  Look here, you… no, coasting to a stop on this topic because it’s not important right now.  Listen to me, Sherlock… I’ll thank you for wanting to look after your brother, but…”

      “Yes!  The reason I am here!”

Another glove smacked Greg’s cheek and John’s delighted giggle just made it all the worse.

      “Will you stop that?”

      “No.  Not until Mycroft’s honor has been avenged.”

      “His honor doesn’t need avenging, you bastard!  _He_ doesn’t even think so and, yes, I know that for certain because I got off the phone with him about it only a few minutes ago!”

      “That Mycroft is too naïve to realize the heinousness of your conduct is, in no manner, surprising, which is why it falls to me to act as your judge and jury.”

      “I notice you left out executioner.”

      “John made me promise not to kill you.  Intentionally.  I cannot be held to account for any deaths resulting from accident or… other things.”

      “You can shove your accident or other things up your arse, along with the knowledge that your brother is so much smarter and observant than you that he immediately grabbed the right end of the stick and you still are larking about pretending to be The Scarlet Pimpernel.”

      “WHAT!  That is impossible.”

      “It’s not only possible, it’s the truth.  You didn’t connect, did you, all the cameras set up, all the media vultures circling and Janine waiting until I stepped out to make her big move.  All staged.  All faked for some free, and probably viral, publicity for your brother’s film.  So chew on that and I hope it tastes sour and with that weird musty flavor that things get when they’re starting to mold.”

      “I told you, Sherlock.”

      “Your input is not required, John Watson.”

      “My input is never required when I’m right and you’re wrong.”

      “Pffffffffffffffft.”

      “Nice, and you added in just enough spit to make any ten-year old proud.”

      “Are you two done?”

      “Your input is _never_ required, Lestrade.”

      “It is if it involves your brother and me.  Can we sit down and talk about this?  There’s been no besmirching, no despoiling or anything like that, but I’ll give you the story about Janine and me and what was going on at the train station if it settles your mind and it gets you out of here so I can sleep.”

      “With whom?”

      “Oh, fuck you, Sherlock…”

Greg snatched Sherlock by the scarf around the detective’s neck and dragged him towards the sofa, pointedly ignoring what sounded like John skipping along merrily behind them.

      “Now, you sit the fuck down and open your ears.  Janine and I were together for a not very long time in a not very serious way that’s _very_ over and done with.  No, I didn’t know she was signed to do the film and, no, I didn’t know she wanted the part in the first place, but what’s done is done and I think she’ll do a great job with the role, actually.  Mycroft isn’t so sure, but he and I are going to discuss it further when I get back from Morocco and maybe I can even arrange for him and Janine to meet, so he can see for himself that she’s more than the publicity-hungry sex kitten he seems to believe from that bit of video I asked him to watch.  Yes, me.  I phoned him and pushed it right in front of him so he wasn’t blindsided.  And he correctly saw the antics for what they were, so no jealousy and no bruised feelings.”

      “I see.”

      “Your tone says otherwise.”

      “Wrong.  My tone properly indicates that I acknowledge your words, however, that does not mean I believe them.”

      “Phone him!  Phone your brother and ask him if I’m lying.”

      “No.”

      “Why not?”

      “His voice gives me gastric upset.”

      “You already vomited everything out of your gastric, so that’s irrelevant.”

      “Your opinion is irrelevant.  Mycroft is sadly inept in reading emotional situations and surely failed to properly analyze the evidence.”

      “Weak, Sherlock.  Very weak.”

      “Speak to me not of your sexual abilities, or lack thereof.”

      “I blame you for this, John.  You’ve got scads of access to the proper medications to tranquilize him but couldn’t be arsed to use any of it.”

John waved off the nonsense with a gesture Greg had to admire for it’s professional-grade aplomb, which ensured John would be receiving something in the mail soon that he’d want none of his neighbors to see.  However, since it would be delivered by a hired lad and not the normal post, the neighbors would get a _very_ good look at the… item… and the name of the person who had ordered it.

      “John is well aware of my tolerance to tranquilizers.  I have worked for years to render myself immune to their effects.”

      “Lovely.  So, if you won’t phone Mycroft, what will it take to convince you?  Cash?  Can I pay you?”

      “What a reprehensible, and guilt-proving, suggestion.”

      “So, that’s a yes.”

      “I shall not settle for less than a thousand pounds.”

      “I’ll give you twenty quid.”

      “Five hundred.”

      “Twenty-one quid.”

      “That is not the proper method of price bargaining.”

      “Fine.  Twenty-two quid.”

      “Unacceptable.  One hundred for me and… another hundred for John, since he will nag me mercilessly to use the money for mundane and petty concerns such as rent and food.”

      “Two hundred quid.  Done.  Now, goodnight.”

      “No.”

      “Now what?”

      “First, I do not have the money.  Second…”

Sherlock’s face finally betrayed some of what had brought him to Lestrade’s door and the actor reminded himself sharply that Sherlock protecting his brother was something to encourage, even if it meant taking glove to the face. Twice.

      “… Mycroft is a meddlesome bore, however… he does not deserve to be treated cruelly or used as a ‘not very serious’ plaything.  He… if you have, as he sees it, committed to some form of relationship, he will take that commitment seriously and… Mycroft has been hurt in the past.  Not romantically, per se, but he _has_ been hurt and it is devastating to him.  I will _not_ permit the pachyderm to suffer that again.  He has been happy in his ridiculous mausoleum, away from the dregs of humanity, and I refuse to see that happiness shattered simply because you fail in your responsibility to treat him with respect.”

John’s faux-aplomb had slipped enough for Greg to notice how proud the doctor was of his partner’s speech and, frankly, it was a pride the actor shared.  The Holmes brothers certainly had their singular qualities, but both were head and shoulders above a lot of others in terms of the size of their hearts, even if they did their best to keep that size hidden, at times.

      “It’s not my intention, Sherlock, to ever hurt Mycroft.  The last thing on my mind, actually.”

      “It is difficult to believe that given your reputation and the brevity of your association with my brother.”

      “Ok, that’s fair.  On both counts.  I’m not a monk, I won’t lie about that because I’m not ashamed of it.  I’ve had my share of fun, but not a single one of those I had the fun with will tell you that I was a cad or that I did anything dishonorable while we were together.  That’s not the man I am.  And… you’re right.  Mycroft and I have only known each other a short time, but… honestly, I don’t know what to say on that score.  It’s been a short time and it’s felt like a short time, but… it’s enough.  More than enough.  I was thinking about him, feeling something special for him almost from the start.”

      “That is not the norm for such things.”

      “No, maybe not.  Or maybe it is, and I just noticed before other people might because I’ve had all the business in my past to recognize that _this_ was different.  I can’t promise, and I won’t, that we’ll make anything work between us.  My record for that, as you seem to know, isn’t a good one.  But, I _can_ promise that if it doesn’t work out, it won’t be because I didn’t try or didn’t care or did something disrespectful, treated him poorly, anything like that.”

      “It would not go well for you if you did.”

      “My face will keep reminding me of that in case I forget.”

      “Good.  I will now accept my money and leave.  My disgust with your living accommodations has begun to paralyze my mind.  And my aesthetic sensibilities.”

Greg sighed and pointed a stabbing finger at John before finding his wallet in his jacket pocket and counting out the cash into Sherlock’s outstretched palm.

      “There.  Can I possibly get some sleep now?”

      “No.”

      “SHERLOCK!”

      “I have remembered another item of importance.  As the film is progressing more rapidly than I anticipated, it is critical that you learn, at least so far as your tiny brain can manage, the profession you hope to ape on the screen.”

      “Oh… ok, that’s not a terrible suggestion, however, my tiny brain is, functionally, becoming even tinier since it’s slowly losing cells into their little hibernation stage that I call sleep.  We’ll need to do this another time.”

      “Which will be?”

      “When I’m back in London.  I’ll have Anderson put a few days into my schedule specifically for that purpose.”

      “Insufficient.  Given your lack of talent for observation, reason or logic, we cannot spare a moment ensuring you do not humiliate yourself and, by extension, Mycroft in the film.”

      “It’s more than sufficient, because the film isn’t moving as fast as you seem to think, though, yes, it’s picked up its pace once they announced it was a go.”

      “I, of course, will have to be present on set during filming to critique and correct your performance.”

      “No.”

      “I counter with yes.”

      “I counter with give me back my money.”

      “John, we are leaving.”

John made a grand show of slowly coming back to reality and noticing Sherlock had spoken to him.  If the man wasn’t already set in a profession, Greg would consider turning his attention towards acting.

      “Oh, you remembered I was here?”

      “You have hereby forfeited half of your hundred pounds for… churlishness.”

      “You weren’t going to give me my share anyway.”

      “That is immaterial.”

      “Greg, phone me tomorrow if… you need to chat about anything.”

The quick cut of eyes towards Sherlock, along with the ‘thanks for not beating him to a pulp’ nod reinforced to Greg that in this life, finding someone who truly cared about you was a precious thing, even if it meant they dragged you into mayhem now and again.

      “I will.  And, now you know where I live…”

      “In a slaughterhouse.”

      “Thank you, Sherlock.  Anyway, John, now that you know where I live, stop in when you can.  I do toddle over to my local when there’s a good match on and wouldn’t mind a familiar arse warming the next stool over at the bar.”

      “Thanks!  I may… no, strike the ‘may,’ I’ll definitely take you up on that.”

      “I, however, will not.”

      “Didn’t expect you to, Sherlock, else I would have extended the invitation to both of you.”

      “That is the first non-idiotic thing you have done in my presence.”

      “Let’s hope it’s the start of a trend.  Now… goodnight?”

      “I have no idea if your night will be a good one, but I also have no intention of staying to discover the answer.  John, we will be stopping for spicy beef and eggrolls before returning home.  Have your wallet at the ready.”

      “You have a fortune in your bloody pocket!”

      “I have no memory of that.”

Sherlock’s dramatic twirl and stalking towards whatever door they’d snuck in through... and disabled the alarm... was impressive, Greg had to admit, but not as impressive as John’s tiny shift of features, quick sniff and cracking of his knuckles as he followed after.  For postponing his sleep, the entertainment wasn’t the worst thing to offer in trade and he could, at least, put check the ‘if you hurt him, I’ll hurt you’ lecture off his list of possible outcomes of this morning’s events.  Now, all that lingered was the discussion with his parents, and Mycroft’s parents, and he honestly wasn’t certain which one he dreaded more.  Probably the one with his own parents, since they never approved of anyone he was seeing and it likely wouldn’t be different with Mycroft.

Or maybe it would.  A serious, scholarly person who was independently wealthy and had the manners to make that wealth seem second nature would appeal to them greatly.  The more Mycroftfian aspects of his personality… well, there was a lot his parents would probably overlook for someone who was not, as they had proclaimed of others, empty-headed, vulgar or scheming.  He could hope for that, at least.  And postpone making that particular phone call until sometime… later.  As far in the laterness as he could possibly manage…


	32. Chapter 32

The wonderful thing, or one of them, about having massive windows was that they filled your house with whatever the weather had in store for you.  You got to experience the rain in its gloomy glory, the snow in its sparkling splendor and the sunshine in all its… fuck but the sun was high in the sky.  Yes!  Yes… thank you, kind universe for putting on hold today whatever you have in lying in wait so this poor, sad actor could actually have a long, peaceful sleep.

Greg rolled over to look at the clock on his nightstand and did a gleeful shimmy in bed when he saw the time.  Sleep… he’d gotten more than he’d enjoyed in what seemed a lifetime and it felt good.  Good with a capital G and the OOD deserved all caps, too, so they could have their share.  He’d have to work out a way to actually spend time with Mycroft and not live a perpetually sleep-deprived existence.  Greg Lestrade, which was him, was not too proud to admit that his looks had been a major factor in his success and those looks would turn traitor on him quickly when he sported dark circles under his bleary eyes, an exhaustion-hued pallor and a stubbly chin.  Not the sexy sort of stubble, either.  More the sort that was patchy and uneven and had that weird shine that damned you as a greasy-skinned person or one who’d been too lazy or unhygienic to wash your face that morning.

Well, he’d have plenty of time later to think about that… and more.  Lots more.  Which was good.  He was a champion thinker.  Or not.  Maybe a bit champion and a bit wearing the participation ribbon.  Uh oh… the brain seemed to be suddenly failing.  Did it need more sleep?  Probably not.  It felt very much like he was at that tipping point between having just enough and too much sleep, where, if you tipped across the aforementioned point, you gained nothing but a sluggish feeling and headache that haunted you all day like a Christmas ghost.  Since he had no time for ghosts today, the brain would get breakfast and coffee instead of more sleep and all would be right in the world.  Provided Sherlock didn’t have any surprises hiding behind the hedges for him…

Greg rolled out of bed, threw on a dressing gown, then let his massive yawn propel him towards the kitchen, which was blessedly empty of unexpected guests, to start his coffee while he rummaged for the quickest breakfast he could prepare.  Knowing it might be the dumbest thing he could do, Greg took a quick moment to check his mobile and beamed widely at the message from Anderson that only said ‘Call – no rush’ because it meant he could eat his quick and heart-unhealthy breakfast, catch up on the news and be an average chap with a free morning at his disposal.

But, of course, he found himself phoning Anderson anyway, because he could eat, drink, belch just as easily on the phone as off of it and it would annoy his agent, which would be an additional boon for his lovely day.

      “Let me guess – you just fell out of bed.”

      “Correctamundo!”

      “Oh god, not you and your stupid words.”

      “Me and my stupid words are happy to hear your voice, too, Anderpander.  Now, what is the no rush conversation on you mind that _my_ mind needs to know.”

      “Very no rush, actually.  Just going to let you know that I talked to the studio about Janine’s casting and it went through a surprisingly rigorous process before the decision was made.  No behind-the-works shadiness.  She actually agreed to an audition when her agent started campaigning and they had her in to read through a sample scene.  She even showed up with her hair in a bun and in a ghastly dress she undoubtedly sent someone out to a common-person’s shop to buy, since the character spends most of the book looking dour, dowdy and severe.  They were impressed.  Both with that and with her reading.”

      “I didn’t expect anything different, truth be told.  I’ve faulted her for loads of things, but never her professionalism and commitment to her work.”

      “That also helped, I think.  Despite her public persona, the studios and directors know she’s a hard worker and doesn’t bring any drama with her on set.  So… hear anything on the Mycroft front yet?  About yesterday, I mean.”

      “I dove into the deep end on the pool straight away and phoned him the moment I walked in the door.  Had him go on YouTube…”

      “Never a good idea.”

      “… true, but I kept him away from the fan videos of me fucking every co-star in every film I’ve ever made… human, alien or other… and he was fine with it.  Well, no… let me say that again.  He wasn’t _jealous_ about it because he saw it was set up for show and not real, but he wasn’t happy about her being cast.”

      “I doubt he would be.  I’m meeting Anthea later and I’ll do what I can to paint the correct picture for her to pass along.”

      “Thanks.  I told Mycroft that he and I would talk more, too, when I’m back in the country.  Maybe get him to meet her, once I’ve pushed through her snark to press her serious-actress buttons.  I do think she could make Mycroft feel better about the whole thing, but not if she barges in like she was doing an interview for one of theentertainment programs where they like her to be… exactly what would have Mycroft pull the plug on her casting.  He said it was possible and, honestly, I don’t entirely doubt it.”

      “I don’t either.  I haven’t seen his contract, but Anthea’s hinted it’s… unusual… and, horrid as it is, the studio would cut her before they’d see the film quashed.  Her name won’t draw an audience size like yours will and they’d see it as good business to cut that loss to keep the project going.”

      “I know, so I’ll do my best on that score.  What else do you have for me today?”

      “You’ve got that luncheon for Mycroft’s literacy project with members of CILIP …”

      “Little help.”

      “Library people.”

      “Oh, ok.  Mycroft’s dad will be happy.”

      “Likely so.  It’s not a dreadful restaurant, either, so you won’t be gnawing rubber chicken while you talk about the good work librarians do for society.”

      “That’s certainly not a hardship.  After that?”

      “A ‘surprise’ appearance at a special screening for your new film.”

      “Should I exercise my signing hand in preparation?”

      “Yeah.  And give your teeth an extra bit of polish because you’ll be posing for photos for about four thousand hours.  But, you only have to be there beforehand, so once the film starts, you can take a car home and… do whatever you like.”

      “That sounds perfect.  Tomorrow?”

      “The _Vanity Fair_ interview we sidestepped last night and a few other things, but fairly light.  The next day is a cruel bastard, but then it’s naught for the following one and then… we leave.”

      “Ugh, but yeah! at the same time.  Ok, then, what time should I expect a car for lunch?”

      “About eleven-thirty or so.”

      “That early?”

      “Librarians are the birds that catch the worm.”

      “I won’t have a second helping of breakfast, then.”

      “Especially not the shite _you_ throw on a plate.”

      “It fills the hole.  Phone me tonight about your chat with Anthea?”

      “Yeah, I’ll let you know.”

The quiet on the other end of the phone happily met Greg’s contented sigh as the actor set aside his phone and poured a second cup of coffee.  So far, so good.  A nice, normal day that would end with him, once more, in the loving arms of his bed.  Really, it was a gift.  A special, precious gift and one that would not be taken for granted…

__________

      “Well, it didn’t burn to the ground.”

      “I would anticipate, Mrs. Hudson that the fire service or my insurers would have informed me, should that be the case.”

Mrs. Hudson waved off Mycroft’s logic and made certain he didn’t see her smile, both at his logic _and_ the prospect of being in London a day or two.  Truthfully, she didn’t miss the city as a place to live, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t a grand place to visit.

      “Maybe, but they may also have decided not to tell you, so you kept paying them money and they didn’t have to pay you out any in return. The insurance ghouls, not the fire service, that is.  Alright then, Molly, ready to go?”

Molly gave her head a little nod and stepped out the Charles-opened rear door to begin the ‘we’re here and now we have to make ready to _be_ here’ process.  Which was mostly her and Mrs. Hudson having a cup of tea and planning what they’d do with their free time, but the first ten minutes or so would be devoted to inspecting the house to ensure that the cleaning company that had been through overnight hadn’t moved anything, broken anything or left any streaks on shiny surfaces, all of which would give their Mr. Holmes a dizzying case of the vapors.

      “Are you going to sit here like a toad on a log or have Charles give you a little drive around while you wait?”

      “I suspect, Mrs. Hudson, that the toad in question is using his time most productively, in whatever manner is appropriate for his species, however, Charles shall drive me to the British Library and I shall spend there an hour and fifteen minutes examining new additions to certain of their collections.”

      “They’re not open yet.”

      “Nor are they ever when I arrive, however…”

Mycroft’s enigmatic smile made Mrs. Hudson roll her eyes, but give Charles a surreptitious pinch on his arm for being a good lad and keeping their employer happy with his rare, but precious, bits of mischief.

      “Be off with you, then.  We’ll have the house ship shape when you return and then you can have a nice nap before evening.”

      “Do make certain the cleaners did not use any form of floral scents in my bedroom.  I shall tolerate a slight whiff of fruit, but I will not abide flowers that are not present in natural form.  That will certainly make me imagine green and the intolerableness of that situation cannot be overstated.”

The discussion over why fake flowers, but not real ones, would make the writer think of green was a discussion no person who valued their peaceful hour of tea and holiday planning would care to broach, so it was left very much alone.

      “No fakey flowers… got it.  Have fun breaking into a venerable institution.”

Mycroft’s sneaky grin and tap on the side of his nose earned him another set of rolled eyes and a gentle closing of the car door by his housekeeper.  The man was just so cute when he had a little scheme going.  The only thing cuter was when his dad was involved.  Who would be in here later today.  Maybe they’d do an after-hours run through the British Museum.  That always put a smile on their faces.  A tiny one, that is, but they counted just as highly as the big ones…

__________

What a gift… the response to her being cast was phenomenal!  Flooded with calls all yesterday and today, her agent had said, loads of interest in why she was choosing such a small, quiet film and what it meant for her career.  And, only a fraction asking about what it meant for her and Greg as a couple.  Which they weren’t, thank you very much, by extremely-mutual choice.  That was the best news of all, really.  The one worry she’d had about going for this picture was that it’d seem as if she was trying to ride that bastard’s coattails.  Leverage their old romance into getting the part and using him as a tool to get a leg up to different sorts of roles and films.

Which was something she’d wondered about, too.  Her agent and publicist hadn’t shied away from asking, either, because it was a fair question.  But, she hadn’t abandoned her prime philosophy which was to play the game but play it by her own rules.  And… play it on her own two feet.  She’d build what she had, or she wouldn’t have it.  Not that Greg would mind lending a hand… he’d offered before… but that wasn’t her way and never would be.  Not only was it weak, cowardly… but what you built you controlled, you held, and nobody could flick a wrist and snatch it away.  Well… yes, there were situations where that could happen, but they were minimized if your career was built on a foundation of your own hard work and talent, not backroom deals, favors and the like.

Now, who could be knocking at the door?  Flowers?  Champagne?  Some congratulatory gesture from an admirer?  Or her agent, who was prone to that sort of thing, not that she minded.  There’d been many lean times when that had been the only bright spot in her days…

      “Yes?”

      “Good evening, ma’am.  My name is Charles and…”

      “What have you brought me today, Charles?  Sweets?  Flowers?  Smoked salmon?”

      “Alas, I have no physical token to offer you, however I can, if you prefer, write out on a piece of paper the invitation I am to bestow and present it with all due respect and fanfare.  You may even sign for it if you appreciate inserting a touch of realism in your fanfare.”

It was only now that Janine noticed that the man at her door was not the standard delivery person, or even the highly-styled delivery person that some of her favorite vendors chose to match their wares with their intended recipients.

      “Who are you?”

      “Charles, ma’am.  Oh, perhaps I should don my hat to make more evident the nature of my employment.”

      “Ok, stupid me for seeing a man in a traditional chauffer’s uniform and thinking you were a delivery person, but that’s not really answering my question and you know it. And how did you get in here?  The security for this building is ferocious.  I should know, I pay enough for it.”

      “One person’s ferocious is another person’s… amusing.”

      “I’m calling the police.”

      “Your prerogative, of course, however, I doubt Mr. Holmes will be happy that he must spend the evening he anticipated, one of cocktails and conversation with a member of the cast of his film, retrieving his driver from the clutches of the constabulary.”

      “Film?  Wait… Holmes.  Mycroft Holmes, the writer?”

      “The very man.  Mr. Holmes is hopeful for a word with you about your participation in his film project.  He was most… surprised… by your casting and is eager to hear how you view the role.”

      “Why didn’t he phone my agent and set up a meeting?”

      “Because ‘meetings’ often put people, shall we say, on the wrong foot for honest and forthright conversations.  There is a stilted air to them that contaminates the very purpose for the gathering.  It is Mr. Holmes’s hope that a simple, friendly conversation will be far more conducive to learning your ideas for portraying his character on screen.”

Yeah, she’d heard this sort of thing before.

      “Or shove his hand up my skirt.”

      “The reasons that would not occur are multitudinous, but if it alleviates your concern, Mr. Holmes has also met with Mr. Lestrade and undertaken a similar conversation.”

That was unexpected.  And _not_ something Greg mentioned yesterday.

      “He met with Greg?”

      “Yes.  Mr. Holmes takes this film extremely seriously and is most concerned that the actors portraying his characters are properly suited for the task.”

Meaning he wasn’t sure about her.  Was there any surprise there?  No.  Another person who thought her only talent was what genetics handed her in the appearance department.  Which, admittedly, was a thought that would be laid to rest by any of her films which emphasized that exact thing and whatever sexual interest it could ignite in the ‘hero.’

      “And, let me guess, he thinks I’m a no-talent floozy.”

      “To be honest, he has no idea who you are in the slightest, besides the small amount of footage he has viewed from yesterday’s rather gauche publicity stunt.”

      “Oh.  Not something to stroke the ego, but I suppose a blank slate is not the worst way to go into things.  Yesterday, however, wasn’t gauche.”

      “Hmmmmm…”

      “It wasn’t!”

      “Not that it is my place to say, madam, however… I sincerely doubt your standard train-meeting wardrobe is comprised of dresses quite that form-fitting and form-revealing.  Or that red.”

Ok, that bit _had_ been over-the-top, but it made certain all eyes… and cameras… were on her and there was no possible way she could get lost in the crowd of Greg’s fans, who were colorful enough on their own.

      “Fine!  Yes, it was a touch gauche, but it was the most efficient way of blasting my name out there in association with the film.”

      “Mr. Holmes does prize efficiency.  You would do well to emphasize that aspect of your decision-making process.”

      “I didn’t say I was going with you.”

      “True, but I highly recommend it.”

      “Or what?  You’ll kidnap me?  Toss a sack over my head and toss me in the boot of your car?”

      “Lawks!  I knew I had forgotten something.  I am utterly without my head sack and I made certain to air it out thoroughly for the occasion, too.  Very sloppy of me, I do apologize.  I am, therefore, only able to offer a comfortable ride to his home where you will enjoy his rather expensive spirits and a conversation that you are free to terminate at any point.  Mr. Holmes’s concerns about how his novel will or will not be respected by the film industry is an understandable thing and he wishes only to allay his own worries on the subject.”

      “If I say no?”

      “Then I leave and inform Mr. Holmes that you declined his invitation.”

      “That’s all?”

      “Beyond my rather limited part in the situation, I cannot offer suppositions or predictions.”

      “Why do I suspect you actually can?”

At least this Charles person had the good sense to know when his shite was being called out and reward the caller-outer with a point-to-you nod of his head.

      “Perhaps because you are not bereft of intellect.”

      “He’ll get me sacked from the role, won’t he?”

      “At present, Mr. Holmes is not pleased with the events at the train station, as he is convinced, quite rightly I believe, that individuals more enamored of drama and self-promotion than the actual work they do are not the individuals to craft a film worthy of his book.”

Janine huffed and hoped her small mental kick to the head wasn’t as obvious as she knew it was.  The one thing she hadn’t actually considered in setting yesterday in motion was how people outside the normal bubble of entertainment media, fans and studio publicity hounds might see it.  She’d been warned that the audience for this film would be heavy with people who didn’t meet her normal target market, which she’d thought was a fantastic thing, but… but forgot that those people would be looking for her to do something different and she’d started right off doing the very opposite of that.  And she’d _completely_ forgotten about the writer who, according to rumor, had a massive red kill switch for the film sitting in the palm of his hand.  Damn.

      “Just a quick drink and chat, right?”

      “The drink and chat part I can guarantee, however, the duration is dependent on a number of factors entirely outside my control.”

      “Straight answers aren’t your thing, are they, Charles?”

      “No.”

      “A comedian. Wonderful.  Let me get my bag.”

      “And, if I might suggest… a different necklace.”

      “Why?”

      “It is green.”

      “Is that a problem?”

      “More than you likely want to know.”

__________

Ok… nice house, door answered by female housekeeper, another female… maid probably… in sight, so some loss of worry that this was all some sex predator trap because both had a gleam in their eye that said any man trying that sort of thing would find himself permanently disabled _from_ that sort of thing in the future.

      “Oh, hello, dear.  Mr. Holmes will be so happy you accepted his invitation.  And not a bit of green in sight!  Just perfect.  Follow me.”

Janine pulled to the forefront of her mind certain little details from her in-the-car conversation with Charles and kept them there since one element had been corroborated by the housekeeper and… well, she wasn’t going to let the others be forgotten so she kicked the legs out from under her chance to move her career upwards to new opportunities.

      “Mr. Holmes, your guest is here.”

      “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.  Miss Hawkins, I believe?  Please, do have a seat.  Might I offer you a drink?”

Janine made clear note of the highly-expensive, and exquisitely bespoke, suit Mycroft was wearing, as well as the genial greeting.  Even a rich sexual predator wouldn’t want to endanger a suit like that while he did his molesting.  It didn’t take a genius to look at her and know that she wasn’t a demur, timid soul and would tear that fine cloth to shreds, as well as his pale skin, if it became necessary.  Worry falling to insignificant levels.

      “White wine would be nice.  Or vodka.”

      “I… I have both.  Which will you choose?”

      “Oh, either is fine.”

      “Yes, but… which one would you prefer?”

Worry now more gone with the wind than Scarlett O’Hara since the poor man looked genuinely unnerved at the lack of clear decision.  Ok, she hadn’t been certain before, listening to the chauffer give her a few tips to make the evening a more agreeable one, she was certain now, seeing the uneasy look on the writer’s face.  She was talking to her cousin Sheila.  The one who had nearly not gone to Uni, despite being brilliant with computers, because she was scared she’d be called weird, a nutter, strange… and worse… just like she had been all through school.  And, now, Mr. Holmes’s concerns about her and the film made a great deal more sense.

      “White wine.  In whatever glass you prefer to serve white wine in.”

      “Ah, that would be the thinner stemmed, plain Baccarat.  I have no authoritative statistics to support my thinking, however, my own observations lead me to believe that women prefer a lighter, less ostentatious glass for wine.  White especially.”

      “Maybe… red’s a more ostentatious color, so something more flamboyant suits it better?”

      “Oh, I had not thought of that.  It is certainly not out of the question, given the very clear tendency of red to assert itself in the most scandalous of ways.”

Should she get out in front of the conversation?  Probably.  It was always best with Sheila not to beat around the proverbial bush and just address things plainly.

      “Which is why I should probably say up front that the dress I wore yesterday for the press isn’t the best indicator of the person I am as an actor.  It was more… consider it wearing a costume for the part of someone hoping to gain some attention for an important move in their career.  Normally, if I was meeting a friend like that, I would have worn a pair of jeans and warm jumper though, to be fair, I may have worn red shoes because I have a fabulous pair that are incredibly comfortable and look perfect with a jeans-and-jumper combination.”

      “Not if the jumper was purple in color.  That would be an abominable mating of hues.”

      “Fair.  I’d probably wear a white, cream or yellow jumper with those shoes.  Orange, too, but fairly pale or it might be a bit much.  Green at Christmas.  Blue’s tricky.  Has to be just right or I either look like a flag or my dad’s morning pills, which boast an odd red capsule and a pale blue tablet, amongst the more standard white and off-white.  He doesn’t remember what any of them are for but is too British to ask the doctor to remind him.”

      “You give color serious consideration.  That is an important matter too many simply ignore.”

      “When you’re photographed as often as I am, you do well to give it serious thought.  For clothes, at least.  At home, I can experiment a little because if I don’t like the outcome, nobody knows about the failure but me.  Many a sofa cushion, vase, picture frame, tablecloth or bed cover has been donated to a charity shop because even my sense of whimsy couldn’t stretch far enough to make it acceptable.”

Mycroft handed over the glass of wine, which Mrs. Hudson had provided in perfectly-chilled form, and mulled over the person with whom he was conversing.  So far, he had added some small amount of flesh to the skeleton of his perceptions about the actress though he could not say he fully understood any of that flesh especially clearly.  However, the evening was still young…

      “My house staff is very well aware of my preferences and take steps to ensure that new additions to the household goods are up to standard.  I am, however, most relieved to hear you are not normally one to parade about in such a garish dress.  It is not the sort of garment one associates with a serious performer.”

That dress cost me loads, Mr. Holmes, and is not garish.  At least, not when it’s being worn in its proper habitat, which are parties and dinners where being the most looked-at woman in the crowd is the purpose for her being invited by this or that studio executive.

      “Actors dress the part, regardless of what the part is.”

      “And what of the part you intend to play in my film?”

      “What about it?”

      “Shall it be you or my character seen upon the screen?”

      “That’s not as easy a question to answer as you seem to assume.”

      “Poppycock.”

      “No poppy and even less cock.  First, you have the filter of the screenwriter.  Then, the director.  Then, whatever producer might have the clout to nudge their own ideas into things.  Then, you can’t forget wardrobe, makeup, lighting, music… all things that add nuance to the performance to sell a particular point of view.  THEN, it’s me interpreting the script as I read it, which might not agree entirely with the screenwriter or director and that’s another series of conversations to negotiate a common middle ground.  It’s not me up there and it’s not exactly ‘your’ character up there when the audience sees the film.”

      “Ah… I had not considered the various sullying influences beyond your own.”

From anyone else, that would have had Janine flinging back a scathing response, but wearing her Cousin Sheila specs, she let the expected barb rest on her tongue like one of Mycroft’s precious boiled sweets.  However…

      “I would suggest, for the future, watching the use of the term sullying when talking about an actor’s performance.  It wouldn’t come across well to people who… don’t understand how you’re actually using the word in this context.”

      “Oh dear.  Hmmmm… yes, I suppose I can imagine instances where that would be true, especially for those with feebler minds who are somewhat apt to view factual statements through an emotional lens.”

Feebler minds… yeah, not touching that one.

      “Back to your original question, though… actors are hired to play a character.  I won’t lie and say that some actors basically play themselves on screen, but the roles those actors get are… let’s just say they aren’t asked to participate in any stage projects where you genuinely have to act.”

      “Are you?”

      “Am I what?”

      “Asked to participate in stage projects?”

Shite.  Walked right into that one.  But, a non-feeble mind can turn anything to their advantage.  Usually.

      “Not anymore.  I was, once upon a time.  Did my bit in fringe theatre, some open-air summer productions, one play that did well enough that it caught West End interest, but they replaced the entire cast when they moved it up.  Shit for pay, miserable hours, but I loved it.  Now, I’ve got far better pay, hours are still hard, though more manageable, but I can’t say I have the same eagerness that I did then, because all my roles are the same, basically, and nothing offers any real challenge.”

      “Gregory has told a similar tale.”

Gregory?  Did he mean Greg?  Oh, that’s interesting.  Given name being bandied about…

      “Has he?  Well, I can’t say I’m surprised.  The happiest people I know in the business are the character actors.  They get to do all sorts of things, work steadily and keep working until they choose to chuck it all and retire.  They’re also some of the most respected people, too, because they never forget that what they do is work and that it demands a certain level of professionalism and dependability.  You get to a certain stratum and people… they forget that, sometimes.  I’ll give Greg credit for not being one of those sorts, but I’ll give myself credit, too, because I’m not either.”

      “Gregory’s professionalism is stellar, that is unquestionable.”

Given names and a very nice compliment tossed in, too.  It seems these two had a _very_ successful conversation.  Now, what would it take to get one for herself.  Greg was sadly untalented when it came to manipulation and scheming, so he had to have made good use of the qualities he _did_ possess to accomplish the feat.  What was on his list?  Normalcy.  Decency.  He was fun.  Compassionate.  Kind.  He had screen presence, was reliable and mature, though maturity didn’t really apply to his everyday life since the man was a grinning toddler, at times… which was part of his charm.  Which he had a lot of.  And sexiness.  What, of that list, made the difference?

Ok, putting the Sheila Specs back on and realizing that it could be any or none of that because what Mycroft Holmes viewed as relevant or important for his concerns was not something she might be able to predict.  So, might as well use one thing she knew Greg also had and that she already had some evidence might be effective here – honesty.

      “I’ll be truthful, Mr. Holmes, I don’t know what to say or do here tonight to take away what I suspect is the bad taste in your mouth over me getting signed for the part.  Could you outline your concerns for me?  List them, perhaps, so I can address them properly?”

      “List?”

      “Yes.  Is… is that a problem?”

      “No.”

      “Alright.  So… was there a reason you questioned it?”

      “I simply was taken somewhat aback that you offered such an efficient method of exchanging information.”

      “If this was just a friendly chat, I wouldn’t bother, but this is business, despite what your driver tried to claim, and I appreciate efficiency in business.”

Was that a smile?  It looked like one.  One that the smiler tried to conceal before it became too obvious.  Looks like a goal was scored!

      “Good.  That makes this far easier.  One, your facial appearance is most vibrant, unlike Rose Dalton’s.  Two, your acting credits are not… to your credit… for this particular part.  Three, the buxomness dilemma, which Gregory claims can be rectified, however, I remain unconvinced.  Four, you move with an overt sexual confidence that must not be seen in the character until the end.  Five, I now see that you rely heavily on words to convey meaning, but the widow employs many non-verbal cues to relay impressions, responses, opinions, etc.  Six…”

Red card shown and now it’s all a big melee where only the strong survive!

      “HOW about we start with those five first, so I don’t forget any of them and we can handle each one without worrying about the time and how many items are left.”

      “That is reasonable.  Proceed.”

      “Are you opposed to… consolidation?”

      “Of associated list items?  Not if the categorization is appropriate and relevant.”

      “Alright, then let’s put the bits that deal with appearance and personal presentation into one group.  I turn a lot of heads and I’m not ashamed of that.  I’ve got stunning features, amazing hair and a great figure and know how to use all of it to my advantage.  I do the same with my intellect, my sense of humor, my people skills… in my opinion, a person is foolish to lay aside useful tools when they’ll help with a situation.  That being said, using those tools when they’re _not_ helpful is just as foolish.  I read your book, Mr. Holmes, a long time ago, I admit, but I do remember it and what your Rose Dalton was like.  She has some of my physical characteristics and mannerisms, but not all.  I’ll leave in place what overlaps and modify what doesn’t, with makeup and wardrobe doing their professional best to make that happen.  Do you watch a lot of old movies?  The black and white sort?”

      “I do.”

      “Then you know how gorgeous and vivacious many of those women were in real life and how they could appear on screen to be completely different.  Stylish and cheery in life, dowdy and taciturn on the screen, if that’s what he part called for.”

      “That… there is a mote of truth to that.”

      “More than a mote.  Part of that was competent people making certain all the details – hair, makeup, clothes, shoes, accessories – work to sell the image.  So what I look like now isn’t relevant to what I’ll look like then.  As for my acting credits, I’ll admit they aren’t the sort that would make me seem right for this part, but that’s the way it is, sometimes.  The ‘breakout role’ myth isn’t always about getting your first big part, it’s getting a part that shows you can shine with a completely different light.  A so-called serious actor gives a stellar comedic performance.  A slapstick comedian scares the life out of people as a serial killer.  The talent and skill didn’t magically appear… it was there, waiting for a chance to be seen.  Waiting for someone to risk taking them on for a film that will let them show what they can do.”

Janine took a long sip of her wine and hoped that Mycroft’s narrowed-eyes silence was a good sign he was listening closely.

      “But, I’ll tell you this for free… the risk isn’t only for the film, it’s for the actor.  You take that step, do what it takes to get that role and make a dog’s breakfast of it?  That’s egg on the face that won’t wash clean.  Not only is it back to the sorts of things you were doing before, but you’ll likely even lose the quality parts in that particular niche.  You made a mess of things and you’ll pay for it now, potentially for the rest of your career.  Some bounce back, but it takes time and they’re the butt of the industry’s and entertainment media’s jokes every step of the way until they gain back some of what they lost.  And, then it’ll still creep in with interviews here and there.  You never can forget it; nobody will let you.”

      “That… that is a horrific thing to contemplate.”

Which, from the genuinely terrified look on Mycroft’s face, Janine had no trouble believing.

      “It is.  It’s one of the reasons a lot of people do sit in their little corner, acting wise, and stay there for as long as the public wants to pay money to see them.  That, though, isn’t me.  I’ve been waiting for something, something that felt right, something that I knew worked for me, something that I could sink my teeth into and do right by it.  Make it the performance that would finally allow people to see that I’m more than a pretty face and shapely body.  This wasn’t an easy decision, Mr. Holmes.  Not one I took lightly or without clear intent that I’d put my heart and soul into the performance.  My goal is to make your character so real to the audience they forget all about who is wearing the clothes and speaking the lines.  They see what they’re supposed to see – a cold, calculating, clever woman who comes within a hair’s breadth of gaining everything she wanted.  It’s what actors do, Mr. Holmes.  They take words on a page and bring them to life and I’m a damn good actor, if I say so myself.  You may find someone who seems a better ‘fit’ for the part, but you won’t find someone as dedicated to making the character come alive on the screen as me.  This is too important for me and I will not, not in a thousand years, fail.”

Janine cleared her throat slightly realizing she’d gotten a touch strident and taken a few steps forward to counter the few steps Mycroft had taken backward, but refused to cut her eyes away from his, which seemed to wonder if that is exactly what she would do.

      “I see.”

      “See what?”

      “That you have… passion.”

      “I do, that’s true.”

      “Passion does not necessarily equate to ability.”

      “Also true, but lack of it doesn’t necessarily equate to ability, either.”

      “Touché.”

      “So… where do we stand?  Moving on to Number Six on your list?”

      “Data is ever a valuable thing, so… oh.  Yes, Mrs. Hudson?”

Who had waffled and debated and conferenced with the other members of the staff before interrupting because there was little chance this was going to make for a happy evening for anyone.

      “It’s… well, it’s Mr. Lestrade on the phone for you, sir.”

      “Gregory?  Oh… hmmm… yes, do tell him I shall return his call at my earliest possible opportunity, likely in under seventy-five minutes.”

      “I… I don’t think that’s the best course of action, sir.”

      “Pray tell, why not?”

      “I… come over here and I’ll tell you.”

      “No.”

      “Just come here.”

      “For whatever reason?”

      “It’s… for the best.”

      “Mrs. Hudson, I have little time, or tolerance, at the moment for the playing of games.”

      “Alright, then, can’t say I didn’t try.  You know how you made dinner reservations and got theatre tickets for Sherlock to take your parents out for the evening?”

      “Yes.”

      “He refused to go to the show and took them to Mr. Lestrade’s house instead.  It likely was a tiny mistake to tell your dad what you’d be doing tonight because he seems to have passed that information along to your mum who, very eagerly from what I understand, passed along to _Mr. Lestrade_ that you were here meeting with Ms. Hawkins here and now Mr. Lestrade is volcanic and besieged by Sherlock and your mother.  John has your dad distracted with something or another, but who knows how long that will last.”

      “Oh my.”

      “He wants you there.  Now.”

      “Oh my.”

Janine was struggling to smother her smirk at Mycroft’s exceedingly-clear discomfort until Mrs. Hudson fixed eyes on her and gave a tut-tut shake of the head that Janine had to admit was worthy of her own mother, who was the reigning monarch of disappointed tutting.

      “And Mr. Lestrade has a few choice words for you too, young lady.”

      “What did I do?”

      “Lived and breathed is my best guess, but he was tossing about terms like flouncing and mouth molesting and… it’s best you ride along, I suspect.  Rip the plaster off in one go; it’s always the best way.”

Mycroft and Janine shared a look that reminded Mrs. Hudson of two little tots who’d just heard their dad discovering the window they’d broken and knew they were done for if he caught them, but more done for if they made a dash for it.  Scylla and Charybdis didn’t age discriminate.

      “Ah…”

      “Well…”

      ‘I’ll get your coat, sir, it’s a touch nippy out tonight.  Charles has the car waiting.”

Quickly darting back towards the waiting phone, Mrs. Hudson rubbed her hands together in anticipation of making use of the languishing-at-the-window theatre tickets with Molly and Charles, who could join them after he deposited the convicts at their executioner’s house.  There was little chance Mr. Holmes would be set free from his beheading before the show ended, so no use wasting those excellent seats.  And, then, it would be her own cocktails and chat time with Dolly.  Oh, the stories they’d have to share…

      “I don’t suppose you have a private island we can hide on, do you, Mr. Holmes?”

      “No, but I have never before wished harder for such a thing in my life.”

      “Do you have a rule against a drink or nine in your car?”

      “I do not.  Are you suggesting such a thing?”

      “I’m suggesting the hell out it.”

      “Please take whatever bottle and glass you like.  Besides the scotch.  That shall be mine.”

      “Your favorite?”

      “No, but Gregory enjoys it and the smell of it on my breath might have a calming effect.”

      “It’s good to have a plan.”

      “Especially if it keeps you alive to have another in the future.”


	33. Chapter 33

      “Are… are you certain, Charles?”

Mycroft looked out of the car window for the eleventh time and was somewhat miffed that the view had not changed from any of the previous times he had taken a disbelieving gander at what was supposedly their destination.

      “I am, sir.”

      “But… have we gone back in time?  To Limehouse in the age of the Ripper?”

      “Not that I am aware, sir, however, I cannot fully be certain that Doc Brown did not install a flux capacitor in our vehicle while I was otherwise occupied.”

      “I… was that a joke?”

      “It was, sir.  Film-based, actually, which I thought rather apropos.  I shall add the film, and an appropriate notation, to your streaming queue if you choose to extend your comprehension.”

Mycroft’s vexation was one of the funniest things Janine had seen in a fortnight, but she credited the chauffer with being a deft hand at teasing his employer without being mean or condescending.

      “Ah, an interesting suggestion.  Perhaps Gregory can also elucidate the finer points.”

      “I suspect strongly that is the case, sir.”

      “That does not, however, alter the fact that… there are likely ne’er-do-wells and malcontents hiding in every shadow of this… slum.”

That was very much along the lines of Janine’s first impression of Greg’s house and its surroundings, but it had grown on her fairly quickly.  It fit Greg in a strange way, but since the man had a strong streak of strangeness running in his blood, it simply stood to reason.

      “Most of the slum is Greg’s house, actually.  Go a bit abroad from that and it’s a respectable area, not filled to the brim with the uselessly rich.  Greg’s never been one to hobnob with that sort and he does like to mill about the shops and stop in at his local, catch a film at the little cinema a few blocks along, that sort of thing.”

Janine’s bit of exposition did little to convince Mycroft that he was not the victim of some pre-arranged prank, because the building at which he was looking could scarcely be mistaken for a home by anyone’s generous use of the term.

      “It is a brick… workhouse!”

      “I’m not certain, Mr. Holmes, if it ever properly met the specific criteria to warrant that label, but it _was_ a factory.  They made hats!  And, to be honest, I think Greg never did much to the façade because… he likes this area.  Likes it a lot and a large part of that is the people who live here.  If he fancied up the exterior, made it look like a place a megastar like him might be expected to live… the property values likely would skyrocket and bring in more of the aspirational types who’d want to buy buildings to fix up into something posh and gorgeous.  That means rent increases for businesses and flats and even leads to evictions, when something gets bought and the leases run their course.  London is already a stupidly expensive city and making this section more expensive because of his ego… Greg couldn’t do that to the people who live here.  And, frankly, he’d be miserable by the sorts that would be moving in to enjoy the fruits of his success.”

      “Oh.  I… I suppose that makes some degree of sense.  Gregory is a kind person and I can easily imagine him bonding with a location and its residents to whom he would then demonstrate unswaying loyalty.”

The tiniest flicker of a question had been struggling to bloom in Janine’s mind and the more Mycroft talked about Greg, the more gas was pushed through the pipes to give the flicker a warm, flamey glow.

      “If you look closely, though… the lights by the door were crafted to look like what used to be there but a bit… more homey.  Windows are tight and no broken panes, like you’d see with an old factory that wasn’t being cared for.  No crumbling mortar or brick… it looks pretty much along the lines it always did, but if you look hard you can see that it’s… it’s a maintained look.  The inside, though, is… well, I can’t say nice because this is Greg we’re talking about, but it’s clean, comfortable and it does have its own unique charm.”

Mycroft eyes cut towards Janine and he hoped his companion wasn’t stretching the truth for his benefit.  To be fair, she had acquiesced most readily to his seating arrangements in the car, as well as slightly repositioning her hair to block the reflection of the car’s gauge lights from his sight.  It was a particularly distressing thing to see and he simply could not afford to be flustered at this specific time when all his composure was required to weather the coming storm.

      “Sir, if I might interject?”

      “Yes, Charles?”

      “I see two easily-implementable methods to gain a better mental picture, for you, of Mr. Lestrade’s home.  One, I can enter and gather visual or, potentially and, photographic data for you to consider.  Two, I believe you currently have an embedded source who shares half of your genetic material and a very similar opinion of hovels.”

      “Father!  So discombobulated was my mind that I completely forgot he was already experiencing the filth and carnage.”

Charles caught Janine’s eye in the rear-view mirror and winked a conspiratorial wink that the actress understood immediately.  For someone as serious, focused and logical as Mr. Holmes, he was a tremendously dramatic man who likely never noticed just how dramatic he was or how obvious was the drama to anyone within a mile of his present location.

      “Father… good, you are still alive in that charnel house.  No… I did not believe you enfeebled… very well, I apologize for my choice of words and… is that Mummy?  Is she… oh god, she’s singing?  Have you no control over your spouse?  No… no I do not care to repeat that in Mummy’s presence.  But… why is she caterwauling when you know she vacillates between flat and sharp in a pattern of chaos not predictable, in any manner, by the highest reaches of mathematical analysis?  That is a profoundly pitiful excuse; I am utterly appalled by its ineffectiveness.  Yes, on that point, I concur… Sherlock is a reliable spark for her personal powder keg and he positively delights in the ignition process if it can, subsequently, rain down agony on the unsuspecting he deems deserving of the agony.  Pardon?  I am currently in my car.  The car?  It is outside Gregory’s house.  Because I have no desire to traipse through a condemned building simply to receive… it is simply that I _may_ have upset Gregory a tad and a blow upon a bruise is far too much for me to bear tonight.   Yes, that very likely what the shouting was about… I refuse.  It is private business between Gregory and myself.  NO!  Good lord, man, when would he and I have had an opportunity to have any… sexual disagreements?  You have become most single-minded, Father, and it certainly does not suit you.  I shall not credit you that, no.  I say again, no.  Would nay be preferable?  Stop saying coitus!  I… is that even appropriate vocabulary for men?  Absolutely not, I have no intention of researching the lexicon of such terminology.  Please do and enjoy yourself to the ends of the Earth.”

This shared look between Janine and Charles spoke volumes, mostly about Charles confirming that what Janine was hearing was (a) true, (b) still an extremely-secret secret and (c) par for the course with father-son conversations between this particular father and son.

      “Fine, I shall place my fingers in my ears and hear not a word of your lecture.  That is not childish!  It is… effective.  I also do not require a lecture on the fact that fingers are not an impenetrable barrier for sound waves.  Pardon?  Oh… yes, I did phone for a specific purpose and that purpose is the condition of Gregory’s home.  The exterior is positively appalling, and I shall not set foot in something that has a similar level of aesthetic horror on the interior, so I desire your assessment of situation.  Hmmm… a point in the dwelling’s favor, I concede.  Status of angles?  I place that at marginal.  How many distinct textures assault the eye when one is gazing in a single direction?  That… is not as bad as I feared.  The grime prospect?  Oh, that is laudable.  Pests?  Any and all species.  Yes, Sherlock counts.”

While Mycroft paused for a quiet moment of sniggering, Janine debated giving him the time-honored, would-you-get-on-with-it whack on the arm, then decided that it would fatally unglue the writer and, besides… he was so cute when he sniggered.

      “Very humorous, Father, but no, do not ask for the pest-prevention or removal history, for I suspect it will only splash petrol on Gregory’s inferno.  Ooh, you do have a point.  Very well… I will now enter the building.  Miss Hawkins, prepare yourself.”

Janine shook her head and nodded her thanks to Charles who finally exited to open the door, first for her, then for Mycroft, both out of chivalry and for his employer to have a small private moment to prepare _himself_ for what was to come.  And, suspecting Mycroft was not inclined to knock on the building-original door, Janine took up the duty, cocking her head slightly when it was answered by the unknown-to-her John.

      “Oh my god… Oh my fucking god… you’re… you’re you!  You’re absolutely you… did you know that?”

      “Are you ok?”

      “Sherlock!  Oh, he won’t care.  Dolly!  Dolly… it’s Janine Hawkins!  Here!  Now!  Really!”

Janine swallowed a grin at the bouncing man at the door, but couldn’t keep it swallowed when he was joined by a bouncing woman many years his senior.

      “Oh my god!  It’s her!  It is!  Bertie, this is the one I told you about, the one who was shagging Greg!  Oh, come in dear, come in… what a thing this is!  You and Greg here… oh, and Mycroft, too… where are the cameras?  Are we already in the film?  Am I an extra?  Me and this handsome, strapping young lad would be tremendous assets to the film, wouldn’t we, John?”

Dolly gave John a squeeze and John’s excited giggle made her squeeze all the harder.

      “Mummy!  Stop molesting John!”

      “Mummy, do control yourself.”

Sherlock’s and Mycroft’s disapproval got an in-stereo rude noise from Dolly and John which made Janine very desperate to know more about this little group, who seemed to be having an amazing party that was somehow connected to the writer next to her and the glowering man bearing down on them like a hawk swooping down on two field mice.

      “You two, with me.”

Janine and Mycroft both gulped loudly, but any impending death was forestalled by Dolly forming a human shield between Greg and his intended victims.

      “Oh Greg, look at you being stroppy.  I tell you what, why don’t you go and have your little tiff with Mycroft… get all the pigeons out of the loft for a bit of an airing… while the rest of us chat with Ms. Hawkins and hear all her news, which I suspect is nothing less than brilliantly exciting.  In fact, I’ll get that started, what say?  Bertie!  Bertie, pour me another glass of that lovely wine Greg has and, how about you, Janine dear?  Want some wine or shall we do a little rummage through the larder for something with a bit more kick?”

Janine grinned and wondered how her favorite uncle Donald had magically been transported from Ludlow and, simultaneously, transformed into a woman.  The man was his own party and this Dolly was, apparently, cut from the same colorful cloth.

      “I know where Greg has some _amazing_ vodka stowed and I wager we can do wonderful things with that, if you’ve a taste for it.”

      “Perfect!   Bertie!  I’m having vodka instead!  Oh, you already poured my wine.  Well, set it aside for later.  It won’t go to waste, that’s for certain!  We seem to be having a knees-up and I won’t see any party I’m a part of end with full glasses of anything lying about.  Wasteful, it is, properly wasteful.  Admittedly, if the spirits are a touch saggy and uninspiring, they’re best going down the sink rather than down the throat, but that’s not the case here!  Greg, love, you’ve got such good taste when it comes to things like wine and the like.  Mycroft, compliment Greg on his spirits selection and he might not take as much skin off your arse and it looks like he wants to do.  Shoo, now.  Run along and tend to business.  We’re not going anywhere soon, so there’s plenty of time for you to work out your frowny-face problems.”

Janine gave a royal wave to Mycroft as she followed after Dolly and John, who were not doing much to conceal their eagerness to continue their time in her presence, despite Sherlock having a hysterical, yet silent, tantrum a few steps away.  The quantity of his anguished vibrating, though, was wafting a welcome, gentle breeze through Greg’s vast, open space.

      “Mycroft…”

      “Gr… Gregory?”

      “Come with me.”

Mycroft swallowed hard at the edge in Greg’s voice, but waved off his brother’s long, slow draw of his index finger across this throat as nonchalantly as he could manage.  At least his Gregory’s seething anger had provided an effective distraction from the sight of this so-called house through which he was walking, hopefully, to some location that had actual residential elements such as doors.  Oh good, one did exist… though it only led to another cavernous space that was perfect for… ooh,  now there was a thought and a useful one indeed.  Ideas were rising for his very-much-a-seedling potential new book tha just might be placing a bit of fertilizer in its soil.  That, if nothing else, might earn Gregory some forgiveness for living in an airplane hanger.

      “My… is there a particular reason you have eschewed a standard residence, Gregory and, instead, chosen this… structure?”

      “Oh, now you’re insulting my house?”

      “The term ‘structure’ is architecturally neutral.”

      “Is that how you were using it?”

      “I… in truth, not entirely.”

      “Thought not.  Now, let’s talk about what the fuck you’ve been doing tonight, since I thought we agreed to set aside the Janine issue until I got back.”

      “Must we?”

      “Yeah, we must.  I’m not happy about this, Mycroft.  It implies… how am I supposed to trust you when you go behind my back like this?”

      “That was not my intention.”

      “Alright, tell me then.  What _was_ your intention?”

      “To… you are going to be away for ages!  A situation that lingers is one that entrenches!”

      “So, we’re back to not trusting me.  You didn’t believe I had your best interests at heart and wouldn’t have postponed taking further action on Janine’s casting if I knew it wouldn’t hurt matters.”

      “That is not, in any manner, true.”

      “Then explain why _the very next day_ you’re meeting with her.”

      “I… I simply needed to take her measure.”

      “Her measure wouldn’t have changed in a couple of weeks.”

      “Perhaps not, however…”

Greg had been seeing red since he found out about the meeting, but it wasn’t thick enough to obstruct his view of Mycroft’s face, which was a strange combination of confusion, hesitation, frustration and other things that he didn’t have the proper words to describe.  It wasn’t enough, yet, for him to back down from this argument, but it did serve to remind him that he had to pay closer attention to his and Mycroft’s words than he might otherwise.

      “I… Gregory, you do not understand…”

      “Then make me.  Honestly, Mycroft, I am fucking furious, insulted and about ready to explode, so whatever it takes, you need to make me understand or I can’t promise that explosion won’t occur and it just might take down both of us with one blast.”

Mycroft’s face twisted as he fought through the thoughts and emotions roiling around inside of him.  He had _not_ anticipated the issue of trust to be raised, but now that it was, his stomach felt nearly sick with upset.  He did trust Gregory.  He _did_ , there was no question, but… Gregory simply did not understand!  And… he had no idea of how to make that understanding occur.

      “It… I heard your words, Gregory, I listened to each one and gave them respectful consideration…”

      “And you still tossed them in the bin and set the bin on fire for good measure.”

      “Nonsense.  Given the utter scale of the mess that would result, you can rest assured I shall never set on fire any rubbish bin, no matter its contents.”

      “Not on point, Mycroft.”

      “I was simply refuting your hyperbole.”

      “It’s refuted.  Now, back to making me understand why you went behind my back and did exactly what I said was a bad idea.”

      “To you!  I never believed it a poor idea.”

Greg huffed an irritated breath and nodded slightly at Mycroft’s argument.

      “Ok, you’re right.  The idea wasn’t necessarily poor to have you and Janine meet, but what was wrong with waiting?  Which, not to belabor the point, was what we agreed on?”

      “There was… it was unnecessary!  I am not utterly incapable of conversing with a person!”

Greg’s tongue began to wag, then he rolled it back up and took a another huffy breath before answering.  Yes, Mycroft you are capable of conversing with a person, but not necessarily in a way that is productive though no intentional fault of yours.

      “No, you’re not incapable, but how often have you conversed with someone you didn’t know and it… didn’t go well?”

      “I…”

Mycroft’s downcast eyes broke Greg’s heart so completely that not even the force of his anger could hold the pieces together.

      “It’s the same for most of us, Mycroft, when you’ve got a bad taste in the mouth about the person you’ll be talking to.  I know Janine and she’s… she can be… aggressively clever when she senses someone is looking down on her, viewing her as some sex toy or a dumb female with no worth beyond looking pretty and bringing them drinks.  I know very well you wouldn’t be rude or sexist like that but… I worried that you’d say something perfectly innocently, not meaning any harm, and she’d slap back at you.  Hard.  Or she’d say something, believing you saw the sarcasm or whatever it was behind the words and you wouldn’t, so you’d be offended or hurt.  A lot of possibilities were there for a conversation to go staggeringly wrong and I don’t think it would have taken a lot of wrong for you to pick up the phone and tell Anthea that either Janine was sacked or you’d kill the film.  I wanted to be there to make sure there were no misunderstandings on either your _or_ her part.”

Yes, they’d kissed, but Greg didn’t feel as if he’d formally been given permission to make physical contact without some degree of formal say so, so he extended his pinkie and wiggled it a little to catch Mycroft’s attention before lowering it near Mycroft’s own hand, smiling that the writer linked their little fingers and gave their hands a small swing.

      “You did not express your concerns in that manner.”

      “No and I’ll admit the mistake.  I thought that we’d get into matters more deeply when I got back and… it would all go more smoothly.  I’ve learned my lesson, though… just say everything on my mind up front, even if it doesn’t seem quite the right time, so you have all the information right in front of you.”

      “That… that would be helpful.  I am… uncomfortable when matters linger unfinished.  It is a plague upon my mind until the terminus is reached.”

      “And I blocked that happening.”

      “Yes.”

      “Ok… ok.  I probably should have thought of that, how you’d react to having a problem lying there at your feet and being unable to do anything about it. Especially a problem that meant a very, very great deal to you.”

      “It was… I could not allow it to remain unaddressed.  Not for weeks on end.  I simply could not.”

And Greg was absolutely certain the ‘could not allow’ was being used literally here.  Mycroft’s brain probably couldn’t let the Janine matter sit on the sidelines any more than his legs could run him to Wales in twenty minutes.  Maybe for something smaller, less critical, but not something about the film and his book.  It was extremely likely that Mycroft started his own fact gathering the moment they got off the phone and without a conscious decision to get started, either.

      “I can understand that.  But, could you, also, like I’ll try to do, lay things out from the beginning next time?  If I’d known all of that during our first discussion, I… well, I would have taken steps, even if it meant I didn’t sleep a wink until I was on a plane out of England, to try and sort things out sooner than later.  I genuinely don’t want you to suffer, Mycroft, but I’ll need help with that because I can’t read your mind.”

      “Oh… I suppose that is a helpful thing, isn’t it?”

      “Yeah, it is and I realize that… ok, it’s back to the trust issue, but I know it takes a lot of trust in someone to talk about certain subjects with them, personal things, I mean.  And I know it can take time to earn that, time we… well, we may not have had yet.”

      “That is… I cannot deny your words, but how dreadful I have been, it seems.”

      “No… no no no no no, not dreadful; I didn’t mean that in the slightest.  That part is normal, really.  You meet someone and connect with them… it’s not the same as knowing a person for years and feeling comfortable enough to talk about certain issues.  Fears, mistakes, embarrassments… hopes, secret likes and pleasures… it’s not dreadful, it’s normal.  I suppose… I suppose I got a bit ahead of myself with the whole thing.  Forgot that we’re just getting to know each other, in some ways, so I shouldn’t have gotten my back up quite so high about the trust piece.  A little high, maybe, but not… I think I frightened your dad a bit when he told me about your evening plans.”

      “Father will likely have taken any potential outburst as data concerning your suitability as my romantic paramour.”

      “Then I scored a failure on that one.”

      “Perhaps.  Perhaps not.  I would have to speak with him to ascertain the results of his analysis, however… I am seeing your position more clearly, as well as my role in creating this situation.  It was not a matter of trust, Gregory, never that.  I… I have little doubt that we could enjoy a lifetime of companionship and my actions would be little different than they were tonight.  It is simply… me.”

Mycroft’s rueful smile made Greg’s still-broken heart clench and he committed himself to remembering this argument and doing whatever was possible to minimize the number of times it would erupt again in the future if that lifetime of companionship came to pass.

      “I know and it’s not a terrible thing, if you worry that’s how I see it.”

      “I… might.”

      “We all have things about us we can’t change, Mycroft, no matter how hard we try or might want to.  It’s a matter, I suppose, of knowing what those things are in another person and being able to anticipate problems so you can be… what’s the word… proactive!  Proactive about avoiding those problems.  So, I know this part of you now and can do a better job of being proactive in the future.”

      “And I must be proactive about… I have no idea.”

      “How about, if we agree on something and you change your mind, talk to me first before going off and doing the opposite of what we agreed to.”

      “Ah, yes, that is certainly not outside my abilities and I shall make a firm mental note of that very thing.”

      “Thank you, I appreciate that.”

      “Excellent!  We have successfully navigated our first quarrel.”

Greg found himself laughing at Mycroft’s jubilant expression and gave the writer’s pinkie a firmer squeeze.

      “We _have_ done that and done it grandly.  I do have to ask, though… what happened between you and Janine?”

      “Oh, it was a surprisingly productive conversation.  She is an aficionado of consolidation, which is very much to her credit.”

Having no idea what that meant, but from the positive tone in Mycroft’s voice and lingering light in his eyes, Greg suspected it was a victory.

      “Good!  Good… did you get what you need to work out how you feel about her in the role?”

      “I generally prefer to ruminate upon information before making a final declaration, however, my leaning is towards… I do not think she is a poor fit for the murderer.  A number of relevant points were scored, on her part, that lead me to believe she would not be as disastrous as I had expected.”

That was, frankly, wildly better than Greg had predicted, though he vowed to get his former lover cornered to get the details of that meeting.  Her opinion and Mycroft’s could be completely different and the new, improved, proactive Greg Lestrade needed to be ready if that was the case. 

      “That’s great news, truly, I’m very happy for both you and her.”

      “I was rather astonished by my findings, and I concede that you do seem to have painted the correct picture of her candidacy and in appropriately-chosen hues.”

      “I really _was_ trying my best for you, Mycroft.”

      “Something I shall draw to the front of my mind when next this sort of bother crosses our path.”

      “Alright then… shall we rejoin the party?  Because that’s what I’m hosting, apparently.”

      “Yes, I did cringe when I learned of Sherlock’s bit of treachery.  It was clearly his turn to entertain Mummy and Father and he cravenly shirked his duty.  I do anticipate, however, that Mummy will now be incandescently happy and that may earn you a longer respite from her next demand for a visit than might otherwise be the case.”

      “Always look on the bright side of life?  That’s a rewarding personal philosophy.”

      “It is.  Although…”

      “Yeah?”

      “I am having a difficult time looking on the bright side of your… abode.”

The tiny wrinkle in Mycroft’s nose had nothing to do with a bad smell because Greg knew his house was fragranced acceptably, thank you very much.  Dolly had said that straight off and he’d pass along to his cleaning service that whatever they used for polish or whatnot was absolutely a winner.

      “Let me give you the full tour, then.  Talk up the old girl a bit and point out various features of interest.”

      “Do they exist?”

Greg used their still-locked pinkies to drag Mycroft to meet his architectural fate.  Yes, his place was unusual, but even Bertie’s interest was perked by the building and that meant Mycroft’s could be, too, though it might take a little work to get that to happen.  But, if there was one thing Greg Lestrade was used to and good at, it was work.  Which was going to come in handy since a relationship with Mycroft was going to be a lot of work, too.  But… good things always were.  Since this had the potential of being _very_ good, he shouldn’t expect any less than a very lot of work.  Might be time to invest in a coffee company, though.  Since he was positioning to be their best customer, might as well have some of that luscious caffeine flow right back into his bank accounts…


	34. Chapter 34

      “Ye gods…”

      “Like it?”

Mycroft took another look around the space and wasn’t sure how he felt about it appearing exactly the same as it did the _first_ time he had a look around it.

      “It is… large.”

      “Exactly!  That’s the point.”

      “Largeness?”

      “If you want an indoor football pitch, at least something to practice a bit on, you need large.  My mates stop in when I’m home, and the weather’s shit, so we can kick the ball, and each other, around.”

      “The floor is… green.”

      “It’s that fake turf stuff.  The actual floor was in poor condition, so rather than completely renovate it, I had the engineer plan for this instead, which he said would be fairly simple, all things considered.  It’s safe, too, so we don’t break bones when we’re being daft.  It’s amazing!”

Greg wasn’t so oblivious that he’d believe for one minute that Mycroft would appreciate his football room, but he couldn’t help but feel proud showing it like it was a vault storing the crown jewels.

      “And… that is its entire purpose?”

      “Yeah, pretty much.  I’ve got _lots_ of space, so there wasn’t a great deal of reason to be miserly with using it.  Remember I said I could put an indoor pool in my house?  I wasn’t exaggerating.”

      “Yes, that has become most clear to me.”

      “You’ve got scads of space, too, but it’s divided up into little pieces, so you can’t have something like this.”

      “You are referring to rooms.”

      “Basically, yeah.  Except for your cellar, of course, which is a brilliant space.  Don’t think I don’t like your rooms, though, because I do.  A lot.  Very much a lot, in fact.  There was just no reason to have that here when I could see use for these big spaces as they are.  Come on, let’s keep going.”

Mycroft gave the expanse, with its fake turf and football equipment, a final glance and hoped that the next surprise would be less… active.  Though, if he was completely honest with himself, the mental vision of a sweat-drenched Greg was not something he was loath to contemplate.  In detail.

      “And we go through here and… voila!  My music room!”

The wide-eyed gaze Mycroft turned on every inch of the space gave Greg hope that this room would meet the writer’s exacting standards.

      “It is… good heavens, you have a veritable plethora of guitars.”

      “That I do.  Not just for looks, either, or to collect.  Each one has its own unique sound that works better with certain songs or… or just matches the mood I’m in that day.  The room was done over by an real acoustical specialist so I get the best sound and don’t disturb the entire area when I cut loose.  That last bit’s especially important when I have other people in to play.  When you’ve got a whole band banging away in here, it gets _loud_ , but it’s positively brilliant.  We even record sometimes!”

Mycroft followed Greg’s pointing finger to an actual room, this one with a large window looking into Greg’s music space.

      “It’s not fully professional quality, but it’s close, and the lads can leave with a recording of what we’ve done to show off or listen to in order to up their game through some self-assessment.”

      “Dear me, that sounds a most serious commitment to one’s craft.”

      “Not too committed, because… and I won’t terrify you with audible evidence of this… there’s plenty of recordings of me and my little group doing advert jingles, Christmas songs where we change they lyrics to something positively filthy and the little tunes they have for the kiddie cartoons.”

      “I… I have no idea if I should be appalled or impressed by your choice of material.”

      “Appalled, most likely, but I’ll score it as a victory, anyway.  You know… there’s more than enough room for a piano in here…”

Take the shiny bait, Mycroft.

      “That is correct.”

Bait not taken!

      “Of course… someone would have to play it or it would just be a large piece of furniture.”

      “Yes, and that would be most inefficient.”

Bait no longer shiny. More a dingy grey and laying there limply on the hook.  Ok… time to forget about bait and lay it out plainly.

      “That someone could be you.”

      “P… pardon?”

      “I’d invite you to play with my membership-varies-daily ragtag band, but you’d hate that, so I’ll invite you, instead, to play just for you or us to hear when you might be in London.  It’d be a real piano, too, not one of the electronic things you hate.”

      “That… a piano is a terribly expensive thing.”

      “Yeah, but…”

Greg made a gesture Mycroft correctly interpreted as a ‘I’m astronomically rich so where’s the problem’ message, which gave the writer a tiny spark of excited self-satisfaction at reading a non-verbal cue.

      “I suppose price _should_ be viewed in a relative sense.  I… I shall consider it, especially if your evaluation of the acoustical qualities of the room is accurate.”

      “Great!  Especially since that means you’ve finally decided you’ll set foot in my house again.”

      “I did no such thing!”

      “You did so do such a thing!  You can’t play a piano in a professionally-designed room without actually being _in_ the room, so that means you _will_ set foot in here again.  Ha!

      “I… that is… bamboozled!  I have fallen victim yet again!  You have done it now thrice!”

      “I have a talent for bamboozlement, it seems.  I promise to only use it for good, though, so no worries about racing through the streets, drunk and naked except for underpants.”

      “That is… ah, you are attempting to use humor to distract me from my rightful indignation.”

      “That sounds a lot better than making a weak joke, so I’ll go with your explanation.  Now that we have the ‘you will be setting foot in here again’ issue settled, ready to continue on?  I suspect you will get a case of the vapors over my master bath.”

      “Does it carry forth the overriding theme of large?”

      “Carries it on, crashes through the barricade at the end, and drops you into an in-ground tub with massaging jets that’s perfect for relaxing, sipping wine and reading a fantastic book.”

      “Oh my…”

      “Want that to be our next stop?”

      “Yes please.”

      “It also has a towel warmer, so you’re cradled with a warm, fluffy towel when you finally decide to return to the real world.”

      “Such a thing exists?”

      “Absolutely.  Not a hard thing to add, either, so if that tickles your fancy, I suspect you can have a chap set you up easily enough.”

Mycroft’s happy gasp made Greg laugh loudly and he turned that laugh into a deep breath before unlinking their pinkies and holding his hand up for Mycroft to see and watch slowly return back down, pause in case its owner saw signs of a problem, then slip fully into Mycroft’s own grasp to hold hands properly for the first time.

      “Is this alright, Mycroft?  I sort of trusted you’d stop me before I did it if it’s not something you wanted, but I didn’t notice any signs, so…”

      “I… normally such a thing would cause me distress but… there is an unsettling sense of unfamiliarity and… proximity… about the act, but it is not, at all, at a level of intensity I predicted.”

      “Want me to stop?”

      “No.  No… not in the slightest.  I am finding it more than tolerable.”

      “Alright then, tell me if something changes, though.”

      “I will.  Now, your bath?”

      “Now, my bath.  Then… the game room.”

      “Was that not your… ball room?”

      “No, my balls get a special room of their own.  This is for other forms of fun.”

      “Are there any that might have my approval?”

      “Depends.  How’s your aim?”

      “My aim?  Exceptional.”

      “Then your approval is something I might gain.  Of course, this could mean a death match with John.”

      “Oh my…”

      “I’ll put my wager on you, though, don’t worry about that.”

      “If lucre is involved, I shall certainly do my utmost to gain you the largest victor’s purse.”

Mycroft only paused slightly before giving Greg’s hand a squeeze and announcing his readiness for bathtub viewing, both of which pleased Greg immensely.  Hand-holding could lead to kissing with body contact at some point very soon and that was more than fine with him.  And, if that kissing with body contact occurred while the two of them were sharing a bath in his stupidly-big bathtub, that would be something to document fully in his diary.  If he had a diary.  Maybe now was the time to get one.  Someday, some poor bastard might want to write his biography, as a caution to others about leading a misspent life, so dates, times, places and other details would come in handy… not all the details, though.  Some of the details of his misspent life were best forgotten by time.  Especially by his parents…

__________

      “John!  That is staggeringly disgraceful.  I have ten pounds wagered on you and I will not stand here and see my funds grow wings and fly into Lestrade’s linty pockets!”

John squinted at the darts board and tried to line up his next shot a bit more accurately than his previous one, that had Greg ducking to keep from being hit in the face.

      “First, you bastard, your brother is rather frighteningly good at darts.  Second, I’m more than rather drunk.  Third, you don’t have ten pounds, so shut it.”

      “My agony will be from watching you cry and wail as Mycroft wrests the money from your clutched fingers.”

      “Is it flying or being wrested?  I’m confused now. And drunk.”

While Sherlock roared, Greg grinned and surveyed his game room, where the party had relocated after he completed Mycroft’s tour.  Mycroft looked almost relaxed, as well as very smug, as he proved that, yes, his aim was exceptional.  John was sweating ethanol, but having a grand time with it, and fully over his fanboying for Janine.  Sherlock was being Sherlock, but participating in things and not off having a sulk, which his mum had said was a common response when her younger son wasn’t happy about people or things.

Then there was the older set who, also, were having a grand time in their individual ways.  Bertie was periodically discussing certain elements of physics and aerodynamics with Sherlock and researching the house, from its days as a hat factory, because he’d decided his local historical group would find the building fascinating as a connection to bygone English manufacturing.  Dolly… Dolly was as wobbly as John, but having the time of her life cheering for both sides of the darts competition, cheering on her husband when he discovered a new fact about the house and having sidebar conversations with Janine, which heavily featured knowing looks and nods at various persons in the room.  Seemed the ladies had formed a little alliance and… Janine looked genuinely happy.  Time to investigate…

      “Janine!  Looks as if the drinks levels are running low.  Let’s see what we can do about that and rummage about for a few nibbles to keep the party going.”

Yes, do feel free to raise your eyebrow suspiciously.  You assume correctly that there is a fiendish plan afoot and the fiendishness is fiendly, indeed.  If that’s an actual word.

      “Alright, a food and drinks run it is.  Dolly, another vodka and lime for you?”

      “Oh, that sounds brilliant, dear.  Bertie!  Another glass of whisky for you?”

      “Yes.  I have neither a desire nor a need to change my beverage choice.”

      “A whisky for Bertie and whatever’s left over for the rest of them.  Make it good and lethal, too.  They’re all having so much fun!”

Greg made a solid ‘ok’ gesture and nodded at Janine to start walking which continued in silence until they were fully out of earshot of the rest of the group.

      “Are you going to start your interrogation now, Greg, or do I have time for another drink before I have to listen to your nonsense?”

      “I want all the details about your and Mycroft’s talk.”

Janine stopped, then took a moment to make a show of smoothing imaginary wrinkles from her clothes before responding.

      “Now it is.  Ahem… it’s none of your business.”

      “It _is_ my business.  It’s a large lorry load of my business, actually.”

      “I don’t see how.  We met about my role in the film and, last I checked, you aren’t me.  Or him.  So… not your business.”

      “Would you just tell me!”

      “Why?  I’m having a lot more fun _not_ telling you.”

      “Foot stamping is only moments away.  Do you really want that?”

      “Yes.”

      “Evil.  You are made of concentrated, weaponized evil.”

      “Well done me.”

Greg began a professional quality, frustrated-toddler dance that Janine stood a moment and admired before huffing loudly and rolling her eyes.

      “While it’s good to see someone your age taking some exercise, this isn’t getting me a fresh drink, so I’ll tell you this much.  We just chatted about his perceptions about me and how I’d fit his character.  I gave my side of it, then you phoned howling like a baboon with hemorrhoids and things were left there.”

      “Baboons don’t get hemorrhoids.”

      “Oh my god… you and your monkey facts.”

      “I like monkeys!  And apes.”

      “Yeah, I know. All too well.  I had to drag you away, by force, from the monkeys at the San Diego zoo because being late on set, and not fashionably late either, wasn’t enough of an excuse to move your transfixed arse away from your relatives.”

      “It… it was amazing.”

      “How many times have you been back?”

      “A… a lot.”

      “Well… there’s a place you can bring your boyfriend for a nice day out.”

Janine smiled wickedly and remembered fondly Greg’s peevish little pout.

      “Aren’t you funny.”

      “Absolutely, but I’m reconsidering a zoo date for you and Mycroft.  I suspect… he might need some _easing_ into that, unless he’s already got an interest or a reason to go, like a plotline for one of his books.”

Greg narrowed his eyes a little and gave his own little huff when Janine spun and continued on to the kitchen to begin the supposed reason for them separating from the rest of the group.

      “Ok… you may have a point.”

      “Why don’t you just ask me?”

      “Ask you what?”

      “What I think.  About you and him.”

      “Because I don’t care what you think.”

      “Liar.”

      “Truther.”

      “Fake word.”

      “No fucks given.”

      “But you _do_ give fucks about what’s going on in my head about your new romance.  You give a lot of them.  Especially the fucks about fucking which I’m willing to wager a thousand pounds you’re not near to having done yet.”

      “THAT is definitely none of your business.”

      “Fine, Captain Hypocrisy.  Now, are you ready for my assessment?”

      “No… yes.”

      “Thought so.  Here it is… he’s too good for you.”

      “WHAT!”

      “Sorry, former lover, but it’s true.  He’s smart, interesting, dresses nicely, has fun parents…”

      “That’s not fair!”

      “Honesty hurts sometimes.  Dolly is a human Mardi Gras party and Bertie… he’s cuter than any of my overly-fertile sister’s kids and that includes toddler Daisy who I said was as cute a human could come to Corgi-puppy level of adorableness.  Did you hear him asking about my eye shadow because it was ‘fascinatingly chatoyant?’  A-dor-a-ble.  And that bowtie?  You’ve met your parents, Greg.  They can’t compare.  I’m sorry, but dour and disapproving is not on par with Mardi Gras and puppies.”

There was no arguing with that, even if Greg wanted to.  Which he didn’t.  Because it was true.  Mardi Gras and puppies was not a defeatable combination in any universe.

      “Point to you.  Though, my parents did _not_ hate you, for the record.”

      “Your mother asked me if I was on birth control because it would be ‘terribly disappointing for Gregory to have to support a child conceived during a simple fling.’ “

      “That’s… ok, that borders on hate, but if she didn’t pull out her half-specs and give you the slow up-and-down, it doesn’t fully count.”

      “Her half-specs are devil specs.  Bertie’s little round ones?  A-dor-a-ble.”

      “Marry him, why don’t you?”

      “I might if he wasn’t massively in love with his wife, who I’m taking out for a bit of shopping and girl time tomorrow because she is a world of fun.”

      “No.”

      “I counter with yes.  We’re meeting for lunch, then having a day out spending lots of cash and making the peasants envious.”

      “She doesn’t have lots of cash!”

      “That’s what her son is for.  Your ‘her son’ not the other one.  Though, he can’t be skint because that shirt he’s wearing costs the moon, and so do his shoes.  Maybe he’s got his fingers in his brother’s money pot, though.  I suppose it doesn’t matter, in the end, since Mycroft is rich and he’ll be marrying rich, so that’s more than sufficient rich for one hissy little kitten.”

      “Puppies, kittens… do you need a pet?”

      “No, because I can visit you when I want to.  Is this all the pesto you have?”

Janine held up the small container she’d found in the refrigerator and remembered Greg was another member of the spec-wearing generation when he squinted to have a better look at her find.

      “I have pesto?”

      “Ok, putting down the green goo that may not have begun as either green _or_ goo and backing away slowly.”

Chewing his lower lip a moment while Janine continued to look through his refrigerator, Greg searched for a dimly-remembered tray to put all their booty on and thought about what Janine had said and, further, how she’d said it.

      “You genuinely like him, don’t you?”

      “Who?”

      “Mycroft.”

      “I do, actually.  He understands passion for and pride in your work.  He’s stubborn, but acknowledges a good argument.  He didn’t talk down to me, even when he was fairly certain I was a tart.  And was respectful, besides.  And, though it’s hard to quantify, I saw how the people who work for him treat him.  The care about him and that… well, it says a lot.   He _is_ too good for you, you miserable thing, but if he’s willing to tolerate your nonsense, then I think this could be a good thing for you.  It’s past time you finally looked at having something serious with another person and not a shag fest.”

Greg grinned in what he hoped wasn’t a too-embarrassing way and cleared his throat when he saw from Janine’s face that he’d failed completely.

      “Who says I can’t have both?”

      “Five hundred quid says you haven’t kissed.”

      “We did!  We kissed!  Twice!  And it was magical.  

      “Do you ever listen to yourself.  Well, lucky me, because I don’t pay out cash to hormonal thirteen-year-olds.”

      “First I’m old as Methuselah and now I’m a spotty-faced kid.  Make up your mind.”

      “Where’s the fun in that?  Now, your guests are probably shriveling up and dying waiting for their nibbles, so get your arse moving and hope they don’t die, or we’ll have a long night of body-hiding ahead of us.”

      “I thought you were all about the fun?”

      “Do you see these nails?  Do you have any idea what a spade and grave digging will do to them?”

      “Isn’t getting a new manicure fun?”

      “Do you want to pay for it?”

      “No.”

      “Then hush and start pouring drinks, pretty boy.”

Janine said it with a pitch-perfect condescending tone that contrasted with the genuine smile on her face and Greg gave no acknowledgement but a small grin of his own in return.

      “I’m pouring, I’m pouring.  But… I do have to ask…”

      “MARRY HIM!  You actually look at him the way those old couples who’ve been together for forty years do and it’s the cutest thing, so do not fucking ruin this chance or I’m going to run you through with a pike!”

      “Uh… ok.  I was actually going to ask if you think you still had the part, but…”

      “Oh.  That.  Right.  Yes, I do, I think.  I wager your boyfriend would have made it obvious by now if I was going to be binned, though I do admit that he could easily be going about his business and chatting with me now and again completely forgetting to say that he was phoning the studio tomorrow to have me sacked...”

Greg had to admit that, too, but declined to do so aloud.

      “… That being said… yeah, I think I’m safe.  Besides, I have zero doubt you already asked him that during your volcanic meltdown and would have told me if I was still standing on the precipice.  So… brace yourself, babycakes, mama’s back in town.”

      “Are you well?”

      “Maybe it was just me, but I got a distinct film noir vibe from _The Devil’s in the Details_ , and I’m going to be channeling those spectacularly-enigmatic ladies from the old films as we dance around each other on screen.”

      “The widow isn’t a femme fatale!”

      “Yeah, she is, just not the slinky, sultry type that’s revving your libido when you’re trying to see her to the gallows.  I’ll do frumpy femme fatale for the first three-quarters of the film, then fabulous femme fatale for the finale.”

      “Oh my god…”

      “What?  You’re not already molding your character?  Slacker.”

And, with that, Janine picked up the tray of drinks, leaving the heavier food-laden one for Greg, and sashayed away from the kitchen with a distinct sway to her hips that Greg recognized as her victory strut.  Which… was deserved.  She’d survived her battle with Mycroft, befriended Mycroft’s parents and got in the last word with him.  She certainly deserved a little strut to celebrate.  However, she also deserved to have her shapely bum kicked by his own not-too-shabby darts skills and that would absolutely be the next death match on the roster.  Chivalry and friendship only went so far, and it they had reached the bitter end of the line…

__________

Speaking of bitter ends… Greg conceded he was now an expert at them.

      “Look at you, dear… Bertie!  Janine got another one right in the center!  Isn’t that marvelous!  You usually see the gents having a go at the darts board, but not so many ladies and… well, we bloody well should!  She could empty the wallets of all the old duffers at our local and wouldn’t that be a grand thing to see?  Bertie!  How grand would that be?”

      “I have no framework to propose a reference scale for this use of the term grand.”

      “Make something up.”

      “No.”

      “How am I supposed to measure, then?  See how many times it goes around my ladies?”

      “Grand has no inherent property that makes a length or area measure relevant, even if it were a tangible construct to accomplish the deed.”

      “Oh… listen to you… I could listen to you all day and not understand a word, but adore it all anyway.  Here, let me pinch those cheeks.”

      “No.”

Greg nodded admiringly as the man, despite a goodly few of Greg’s whisky’s, was still deft enough to dodge his cheek-pinching wife, who huffed dramatically in frustration.

      “What a dreary thing you are, Bertie Holmes.”

      “You birthed two sons who have a duty to accept your maternal affection.  Go and pinch them.”

      “Ooh!  Brilliant idea.  Sherlock!  Come here, I want to pinch those lovely cheeks of yours.”

      “NO!”

Sherlock, however, was not as deft as his father, perhaps due to fewer years of practice or the extra glass or two of spirits he’d enjoyed beyond his father’s total… or perhaps due to John body checking him as he tried to make his getaway… and fell victim to his mother’s eager fingers, who pinched his cheeks and hummed merrily while doing it.

      “What a good boy you are, Sherlock.  You are my very favorite youngest son.”

      “That is nonsensical.  I am your only… oh.  Lawks, Mummy has told a joke.  Guffaw, guffaw, guffaw.”

There were comedians who would give a year’s wage to even approach the aridity of Sherlock’s deadpan delivery.

      “See?  Such a good, good boy…”

      “MYCROFT!”

Who had been analyzing Greg’s darts performance to offer corrective suggestions and truly had no patience for his brother’s juvenility.

      “Accept your fate, brother dear.  If you are an obedient boy, Mummy might find some sweets to reward you.”

      “I do not want… Mummy, _do_ you have sweets?”

      “No, my precious son, but I’m sure we can find some easily enough.  Mycroft’s driver is such a dear man and knows everything in London, so I’m certain he can find a truly amazing sweet shop for us to plunder.”

      “Very well.  Continue your molestation.”

Greg cut eyes over to John and was pleased that he doctor’s smile was as wide and proud as his would have been if it’d been Mycroft who was being victimized by motherly molestation.  He could easily envision a time, many times, in fact, when he and John would be moaning into their beers about their individual Holmes brothers and rejoicing in the fact they actually had someone to talk to who understood what it meant when there was a Holmes brother in your life.

      “Dorothy, I suggest that if you hope to pinch your son to death, you do it somewhere other than Gregory’s home, because I am well aware of the repercussions for him if a dead body is found on the premises.  The media would be most pestiferous and that would significantly interfere with his ability to prepare for his role in Mycroft’s film.”

Once again, his home was a potential death trap and Greg decided that was as good a sign as any to nudge the party towards a close.

      “Oh, they’d be a mischief, there’s no denying that.  Besides, it’s probably past Sherlock’s bedtime and if he just nods off, that could be interpreted by a snooping paparazzi patrol as a dead body and I’d be in the same fix.”

      “Are those shady buggers snooping about?  We can’t have those nasties taking photos now – my hair is a mess!  Janine, dear, help me fix myself up so the photographers don’t think Greg’s consorting with some shabby old crone.  That won’t do his reputation as a lothario a lick of good!”

Mycroft’s pained sigh could have been recorded and added to the BBC archive of sound and Foley effects where it would subsequently be featured in every film, television and radio broadcast where a long-suffering sigh was needed for dramatic emphasis.

      “On that note… Father, do collect your shabby crone of a wife and escort her to the car.  Charles should have returned from his use of one of my rather expensive theatre tickets, along with Mrs. Hudson and Molly, though they believe I would not have deduced their scampish actions, and will happily provide Mummy with more alcohol to curtail further of her more calamitous behaviors.”

Mycroft’s shooing motions earned him his own set of mother-pinched cheeks before Bertie tapped his wife directly on the top of her head and kept on tapping until she released her latest target.

      “I am the luckiest woman in the world and nobody can tell me differently.  Look at these smart, handsome men in my life.  All of them!  It’s an embarrassment of riches, is what it is.  Janine, love, don’t you agree?”

      “I confess – I am thoroughly and profoundly embarrassed.”

      “See!  And she hobnobs will all sorts of gents, what with having to gad about for films and the like, so she knows quality when she sees it.  Oh Bertie, I’m getting all teary-eyed.  I think I _could_ do with a nice drink and a little sit.”

Bertie kept his finger on the top of his wife’s head and used it to steer her teary-eyed self to the car, tossing back a ‘do not tary long, Mycroft’ over his shoulder as if his middle-aged son was a child already at the promised sweet shop and desperately making up his mind about how to spend his coveted Christmas money from his grandmother.

      “Mr. Holmes… the Younger… fancy giving a lady a ride home in the car she was abducted in?”

      “Oh, I do apologize, Miss Hawkins, if Charles was overly forceful in proffering my invitation.”

Adorableness was a genetic trait, it appeared, and Janine made herself a promise that if Greg made a mess of this, which wasn’t at all out of the realm of possibility, she’d bang his head like a gong until he saw the error of his ways and made amends.

      “He wasn’t, I was kidding, so I’ll take that as a yes and toddle off to make certain your dad isn’t chasing your mum down the street because she saw a cat milling about and simply had to adopt it.”

The look shared between the remaining males said they not only could they envision that scenario, they put the probability at extreme that any cat poking its head out for a bit of night air would become the third Holmes sibling and be awarded all rights and privileges accordingly.

      “Thank you, Miss Hawkins.  That would be most helpful.  Sherlock… enjoy your cab.”

Sherlock’s rude noise was completely expected, but so was his hand extending to demand money for the cab, which Mycroft provided only after a loud, prolonged sigh.

      “Finally.  Now, John also requires money.”

      “Pray tell, brother dear, for what?”

      “…. a new jumper.”

Normally, John would intervene, but seeing how his partner’s lunacy might win him free cash, or a new jumper, wisely stayed silent.

      “Mummy can knit for him a new one.”

Staying silent not an option!  Captain John Watson leaping into battle to save the world from wool-induced itching.

      “Thank you, Mycroft, for that frugal suggestion, but I’m fine with what I have, for now. Greg, we’ll see you before you leave?”

      “I hope so.  If I can’t, though, when I get back we’ll catch up.  I can show you my travel snaps.”

      “That’s always a joy.  Come on, Sherlock.  Our cab awaits.”

Wishing he had the height to put a finger on top of Sherlock’s curls and steer him out of the house, John had to settle for putting both hands to Sherlock’s back and begin pushing him along Greg’s smooth floors towards the door.  Later, when Sherlock was neck-deep in one of his experiments, he could sit like a giddy lad and marvel that he just spent the night at a highly-exclusive party with _two_ ultra-famous film stars and Britain’s most successful living mystery writer.  The fact that it felt no different from a silly night out with his mates was absolutely inconsequential.

But, oh yes, he’d want to see _all_ of Greg’s travel snaps.  Inconsequential or not, that was a taste of a star’s life that he was not about to miss.  On second thought, this was Greg.  They’d likely be nothing but pictures of dogs, funny rocks, his own feet and glasses of beer.  Maybe some nice publicity person would post something online to satisfy the public’s thirst for film-star fantasies…

__________

      “How you doing, Mycroft?  Bit tottery?”

      “I ceased my imbibing at precisely the correct time to avoid such an unsteady fate.”

You passed the flushed cheeks stage, though, and that is a joy to behold.

      “Very wise, especially since you’re hosting your parents and nothing’s more embarrassing than being a wobbly, ridiculous drunk in front of your parents.  Well, passing out and pissing yourself in front of your parents, perhaps, but… ok, you are looking positively revolted right now, so changing conversational course immediately.”

      “Yes, I would appreciate that.  And… I appreciate that you so generously hosted my family tonight.  Sherlock can be a dreadful nuisance and delights in casting his dark magic as far as he possibly can.  I had no idea in advance that he would wreak my parents upon you.”

      “I admit I was shocked when they all arrived at my doorstep, smiling… except for your dad… and shouldering their way past me… again, except for your dad… to get the party rolling, but I had fun, nonetheless.  A nice way to spend an evening and… I’m certain it gave you more data to process about Janine.”

      “That is very true.”

      “Are you willing to share your conclusions?  I… Janine seemed fairly happy about the whole business and I didn’t share anything you confided with me when you arrived, but I suppose I’m just hoping that nothing else tonight changed your mind about her.”

      “I cannot say that my mind has swayed from her not being a plague upon the film.  In truth, observing her interact with the diversity of personalities present tonight confirmed a number of my earlier hypotheses and I see no reason to seek her removal from the role.”

Yes!

      “Good, I’m glad to hear that and I know she will be, too.  So… I guess they’re waiting for you out there.”

      “Oh my, yes.  I actually forgot!  Regardless, Father would have phoned and issued a reminder if I lingered overlong.”

      “Good to know.  So… again…”

      “Yes, it is certainly time for me to depart.”

      “Anything… anything you want to do before partaking of the departing?”

      “I have no idea what that means.”

      “It’s sort of traditional… but not required!... for a… couple… which we are now… and we did it before, so…”

      “You are not clarifying yourself effectively.”

Thank you for pointing that out with a stellar amount of both clarity _and_ effectiveness.  Wading in for another try.

      “Care for a goodbye kiss before you go?”

      “Oh!  My mind was on an entirely different trajectory for the concept to even enter my thoughts.”

Wading had occurred, but ego-boosting it was not.

      “Yeah, it’s that way sometimes.  Have something on the brain and you forget to put socks on before you leave the house.”

      “That was not nearly the thrust of my statement, no, and… do you often go about without socks?”

Ummmm… was it time to broach the ‘I hate wearing shoes when I’m milling about the house and it was only luck your family found me shod and not gloriously naked-footed when they arrived’ conversation?  No, probably not.

      “Only if it’s appropriate for the type of shoe I’m wearing.”

      “Socks are always appropriate for proper hygiene.”

Mycroft was going to be one of those old gents who wore sandals and socks together.  Even _in_ the house.  If he could _get_ Mycroft to wear sandals, that is.  Maybe… never, ever suggest Mycroft wear sandals.  In or out of the house.  Yeah, that was probably for the best.

      “That sounds like a fantastic discussion for another day, but now, how about back to a goodnight kiss before your dad phones because he wonders if we’ve started shagging and they should just leave without you.”

      “Father would never make that assumption as he has calculated a very precise predicted timeline for our romantic interactions and we are not near the point where such a thing would occur.  Though, to be fair, he does raise the topic more often than is proper for a man his age.”

Oh good, there was a predicted timeline.  That was a comfort.

      “That’s your dad, efficient but with an impish streak.”

      “Impish… what an appropriate descriptor.  Only occasionally, mind you, but certainly enough to warrant the occasional chastisement.”

      “Does your dad’s timeline… how detailed is it?”

      “Very.”

Lovely.

      “If, say, I asked to kiss you and… maybe do a bit of hugging at the same time, will that be on track with his highly-competent analysis?”

      “I would need to consult his flowchart.”

      “Ok… fair.  Let me phrase it this way, would you _object_ if I kiss you, now, and maybe do a bit of hugging at the same time, despite it being unclear if your dad’s timeline was properly predictive of the event?”

Now that they were fully out of the theoretical arena, Mycroft’s eyes widened slightly, and Greg tried to keep his smile as genial and non-pervy as possible.

      “How… how much hugging?”

Not nearly, in any universe, as much as might have been floating in the mind of the hugger when the suggestion was made.

      “Exactly as much as you want and not a smidge more, given I sort of sprung this on you without allowing proper time for deliberation.”

      “Yes, it was somewhat a hastily-made request.”

Hugging not really Mycroft’s ‘thing’ yet, apparently, which fit in with the fact his mum’s hugs were quick and, now that he thought about it, not really full-body hugs, either.  Must remember to issue warnings in the future about surprise instances of hugging.

      “How about this… I shall put the tips of my shoes right here at the edge of this tile and… do you think it would be alright if I put my hands, say, on your waist or hips?  That way it’s a touch more intimate, but not a true hug, so you can start to, if you’d like, get used to things?”

      “That is a surprisingly manageable idea, Gregory, and a worthy compromise.  Do begin.”

After a quick ‘thank you’ sent up to the stars for their efforts towards his love life, Greg slowly reached out and placed his hands so they rested on Mycroft’s waist, then leaned in to kiss the most delightfully baffling man in the world, keeping the heat at a very moderate level, but giving himself a mental fist-bump when…

      “Gregory!  You have initiated chest pressing!”

      “Nope.  Look at the floor, Mycroft, and tell me what you see.”

      “Oh… your feet have not changed position.”

      “But yours did.”

      “You… dear me, you are correct.  I was the initiator!”

      “Which seems to please you.”

      “I… yes, it actually does.  Good heavens, I had no idea I harbored such a tawdry streak.”

If this man ever changed, the world would be a much poorer place.

      “Always good to find something new about yourself.  Want to continue on, you raging harlot?”

      “Very much.”

Which Greg wasted no time doing, keeping the contact exactly at the same level and relishing every moment of it.  Even Mycroft’s subconscious was giving the writer a nudge in the physical direction!  Really, that was no small victory and a very…

      “Damnation!”

Mycroft’s mobile rang loud and clear in the space, echoing off the hard, high ceiling.

      “I wager twenty quid it’s your dad that’s phoning you.”

Greg grinned as Mycroft shoved his hand into his pocket to retrieve his mobile and from the vexed scowl, Greg wished they’d formalized the wager to put a little extra cash in his pocket.

      “Father, you have interrupted a private moment with… what?  No!  NO!  Do not say that again.  You are never… that word is forever banned from your lexicon.  I truly do not care that coitus is a standard English term, but it is now forbidden from falling from your tongue.  Pardon?  Yes, an exception can be made for discussions with Mummy, though not discussions with Mummy in my presence.  Very well, we may append a second exception to discussions with your discussions with Theodore, though why you and he would have cause to converse upon that topic is something I cannot fathom and do not, under any circumstances, want you to explain given…  Archimedes robes, man!  I will not sit here and script the bevy of exceptions to my edict that cover every possible circumstance known to humanity!  I refuse.  No… no… very well, yes, that will be sufficient.  No, I will not stoop to signing a contract.  No, I further will not explain to Mummy why I am being tedious.  Yes, I will be with you shortly.  No, I will not quantify ‘shortly.’  Because I do not care to at this moment.  That is not my fault!  You are the one who is continuing this discussion when I could be using the time to walk to the car!  Fine… I shall be but a moment.”

Mycroft hissed slightly at his mobile after banishing his father to silence and Greg decided that laughing, now, was perfectly appropriate.

      “Really, Gregory?”

      “You dad is a strict chaperone.”

      “Father has become more meddlesome than Mummy, something I never dreamed possible.”

      “It’s a sign he cares.  Now, off with you or he’ll be knocking at the door and having to stand shamefaced for a lecture from an irritated father is not a pleasant thing.”

      “You have experienced this?”

      “When I was seventeen, Joanie Grettle’s dad noticed that her shirt was on inside-out after a date and, yeah, I had to get a lecture about what my grubby hands were not to do to his daughter again if I wanted them left on my wrists.”

      “Given the natural sexual urges of the average male and female at that age, I fail to see why he would be surprised, let alone perturbed.  I would have thought he would have experienced far greater disappointment at her state of dishevelment.  Whatever would the neighbors have thought of his daughter being seen in such disarray?”

      “Ummm… it was rather dark, so he likely thought that nobody could see the seams of her shirt standing proud.”

      “Perhaps.  I, myself, would have noticed and had much to say on the subject.”

      “I have no doubt, but this isn’t getting you closer to avoiding a visit by your dad.”

      “No, now that you mention it.  I… I seem to be having difficulty making an exit.”

      “That’s high praise, indeed, and I appreciate it, just so you know.”

      “I suppose it is, in point of fact.  I find it interesting that…”

      “March.”

      “No… do you require a calendar?”

      “March as in begin walking in a determined way towards the door.”

      “Ah!  Yes, my mind was meandering again, it seems.  I am now commencing a march.”

Which Mycroft did in a very precise fashion that Greg thought nicely highlighted the pertness of his bottom.

      “I have reached the door.”

      “That you have.  One last kiss and out you go.  You… you want to take on this one yourself?”

      “May I?”

      “You may.”

Something Mycroft eagerly began, mimicking Greg’s initial motions exactly and, again, being the one to take the step forward to stand chest-to-chest with the man he was kissing, this time, with no phone to interrupt the moment.  Which lasted a satisfyingly long time.

      “Dear heavens…”

      “Yeah… me, too.”

      “Kissing is far more… FATHER!”

The knocking on the door started Greg laughing again and he honestly couldn’t think of a more perfect way for their night end than by Mycroft flinging open his door to snarl at this father, who was standing placidly on the stoop.

      “When, Mycroft, will you be finished with whatever romantic behavior it is that currently occupies your attention?  If it is to endure more than two and one-half minutes, we will deliver Miss Hawkins to her home and return for you after the fact.  If, that is, you are not remaining to engage in coitus.”

      “You have abrogated the treaty!”

      “My apologies.  If you are not remaining to _fornicate_ in whatever manner brings you greatest pleasure.”

Mycroft slammed the door and turned a mortified face towards the man he’d been kissing.

      “Gregory, I must leave.  Immediately.”

      “Yeah, I think that’s smart.  Goodnight, Mycroft.”

      “Goodnight.  I shall phone tomorrow to arrange our next assignation.”

      “Uh… ok, but remember that I’m preparing to leave and am fairly tightly scheduled.”

      “I shall phone your agent and have him provide your full schedule, so I might glean suitable intervals for interaction.”

      “Which means you’re staying in London a few days?”

      “Yes, it will be crippling, but I shall endure.”

      “I feel honored.”

      “Yes, that is, in truth, the proper way to view it.”

With a small, happy smile, Mycroft threw open the door once again and Greg was not at all surprised to find Bertie standing there looking intently at this watch.

      “We will be having words about this, Father.”

      “Good, for I have no desire, at this moment, to learn sign language, though it is part of my scheduled learning goals for next year.”

With a loud, very Sherlockian snort, Mycroft stormed out of Greg’s house, with his father following behind after a quick nod to Greg, who suspected it was to cover a quick look-over for inside-out shirts or a trouser zip in the down position.  To be fair, he’d do the same if someone like him was involved with his currently-imaginary son.  There’d be glaring, too.  Probably lots of it.  Rough, cheeky lad doing things behind closed doors with his sweet, innocent little boy?   Suddenly, Mr. Grettle didn’t seem so villainous anymore… and both of them were worlds less sexually-straightforward than Bertie Holmes.


	35. Chapter 35

      “Dear me…”

Mycroft looked over the information Anderson had provided and felt a wisp of sadness for his dear Gregory.  He knew the man worked far too hard and that his time was in short supply, but seeing it laid out in the proverbial black-and-white was positively disheartening.  Legions of ridiculous commitments, some scheduled so closely together that his agent had made note to have lunch or dinner delivered to the location of the ridiculousness, since there was no time to stop and enjoy a proper meal.  Whereas his own days were busy, most busy indeed, his time was on his terms and he could arrange matters as he liked.  Poor Gregory could not, in any manner, say the same…

      “There’s my handsome son!  Still awake?  It’s nearly nine in the morning!”

Oh goodie… Mummy was here.

      “I wanted to make certain I received Gregory’s work diary before Mr. Anderson became too busy to prioritize my request.”

      “Just like your dad, always efficient and getting things done.  Don’t start you own chart with it, though, filling in all the blank spaces with your own ideas for fun.  Make sure you think about your Greg, first and foremost.  He needs some time to relax, poor dear, and I suspect he might be a bit done in after last night.  I’m always tired after a good party and that was a marvelous one, so I’m sure he’s feeling it this morning same as me.”

      “Yes, I shall make it very clear to Sherlock that such shenanigans are not appropriate and will _not_ be tolerated in the future unless Gregory is first consulted and gives his approval.”

      “That’s the ticket!  Sherlock won’t listen, but it’ll give John a bit more ammunition when Sherlock’s trying to be a silly bugger again.  Your dad is going to take charge of your brother today, though, just in case he gets another notion in his head that doesn’t bring anything but grief to poor, innocent people.  I think they’re going to the morgue, which your dad will love.  Will they let him take snaps, do you think?”

      “I have no idea.  I know Sherlock is surprisingly friendly with a young woman who works there, and she has accommodated any number of his more unusual demands.”

      “Oh good, then your dad will have lots of those giggiebites of photos to show off.  I don’t know who to, but he’ll find someone, whether they like it or not!  And you, my sweet Mycroft.  Getting your beauty sleep while we all take advantage of what London has to offer?”

      “I shall retire soon, yes.  Beyond that, I have no firm plans for the day.”

      “Poor dear.  I know how much you hate that.”

      “I detest this city.  London is completely non-conducive to keeping with my standard routine and offers no boon for my writing process.”

      “It’s only for a few days.  I know very well it won’t make your brain melt but, maybe, look on it as a chance to have a bit of time as a family and work on your being a partner or boyfriend or whatever you want to call yourself talents.  Think of something nice to do with your Greg tonight, if he’s willing and able, but If you can’t get a rabbit to hop out of the hat, maybe we can all do something like watch a film or play one of those games your dad and you enjoy.  I never win, but it’s so much fun, I can’t bring myself to care!”

The sheer mental cacophony from being so uselessly adrift was agonizing, however… thinking about Gregory _did_ provide an anchor that was both helpful and pleasant to contemplate.

      “Perhaps… I must complete my time-analysis for Gregory’s schedule first.”

      “Well, you get on with that and I’ll see your dad sorted before I’m off for my shopping trip.”

And may London be left standing from the… no, that must be immediately reconsidered.  And may London be _razed to the ground as from a nuclear blast_ from the much-vaunted shopping extravaganza.  In fact, what a joy it would be to contribute to such a worthy cause.

      “What can I provide you for funds, Mummy?  I do want you to enjoy yourself to the fullest.”

      “Not a farthing!  Your brother picked your pocket last night and got one of your bank cards for me.  I won’t be too extravagant with it, though, I promise!  Just enough extravagance to make me feel like a very wealthy lady out on a little spree.  I’ll be one of those rather messy old things who have loads of cash, but look like the old dear feeding birds in that _Mary Poppins_ film.  That’ll ensure Janine gets all the sexy looks from the handsome men and I’m not distracting them with my natural gorgeousness.  I’ll bring you back a little surprise, though, so don’t feel you’ll be left out of the fun!”

As his mother hustled out of his not-nearly-as-comfortable London study, Mycroft simply smiled and shook his head at the impact his bank balance would see because he was honestly glad for whatever monies his mother saw fit to funnel towards her amusements.  His parents took so very, very little from him that any little luxury he could provide was a blessing.  Sherlock, however, was another matter.  He would instruct his solicitor to immediately place some form of condition on Sherlock’s monthly allowance.  Perhaps, collecting it in person.  Wearing a bright red frock.  And those flippers the scuba divers sported.  As well as the mask.  Carrying a trumpet and dustmop.  Or not.  There was no doubt Sherlock would convince John to take his place, wearing a dark wig and platform shoes, in hopes that the solicitor was completely blind and would be taken in by the disguise and Doctor Watson did not deserve such an indignity.  At least… not for more than six months or so.

__________

      “See, Greg, what’d I tell you?  No rubber chicken, people talking about books and libraries and the good work they do, which you happen to adore… not bad, you have to admit.  And they let me have lunch, too, which is good since I’m poor and can use the free food.”

Greg cocked his eye at his agent who was making certain every morsel of that free food went entirely down his gullet and was clearly hoping the pudding course would be arriving soon and be as plentiful as the rest of the meal.  The man was the stringiest human ever created, but he could be one of those competitive eaters if he ever needed an extra gig to earn cash.

      “You were lucky there was an empty seat at the table or you’d be out near the bins.”

      “Fine with me.  That’s close to the kitchens and you can always convince the kitchen lads to give you a bit of this and that.  It’s how I stay alive when you’re at one of those dreadful awards parties or galas or whatnot.  Beg.  I beg at the kitchen door for scraps to be tossed my way.”

      “When I went looking for you after the BAFTA bash, I found you in the center of a fortress of empty prawn shells with sauce smeared on your face.  There was a lobster in the mix, too, if I remember.  And an empty bottle of very nice vodka.”

      “Hallucinations.”

      “Pfft.  However, I’ll agree… this is a good group and I’m glad Mycroft’s charity has outreach with different sorts of organizations like this.  I’m actually looking forward to this project, especially when I get the chance to work with the kiddies.  That gent over there said they’re hoping to promote more ebook use by the kids since they always have their phones with them, but may not want to carry about a heavy book.  Or worry some arsehole will tease them about reading, which evil little fuckers do, at times.  I’d _love_ to get involved with that campaign.”

      “Let me look into it and see if there’s anything more there than some wishing and hoping.”

      “Yeah, do that.  And I’ll talk to… ooh, speak of the devil…”

Greg grinned at his ringing mobile, because he’d set a special ringtone to alert him when Mycroft phoned and he’d bet himself that he’d be hearing that special ringtone sooner than later because… they were both ridiculous teens and this is exactly what ridiculous teens did after a night like last night.

      “Mycroft Holmes!  As I live and breathe, it’s past eleven and you’re still awake!  And… and everyone in this room is now gaping at me.”

Maybe being a dolt and yelling out the name of the most famous mystery writer in the country in a room full of librarians wasn’t a smart plan if you were trying to present as a serious man who was ready to take on the serious task of promoting literacy and _not_ a ridiculous teen riding the residual high of a truly marvelous time with his special someone.

      “Oh, where are you?”

      “At that librarian luncheon.”

      “Ah, I do have some small measure of celebrity among that particular circle, so perhaps they are astounded that you would be a person who would merit a phone call from me.”

Mycroft was so cute when he was egotistical.

      “But, they know I’m acting as representative for the charity that you basically control.”

      “Hmmm, that is true.  You could, however, simply have be chosen from a photograph to be the proverbial pretty face of my initiative.”

CUTE!  The man was so unbelievably cute.  This was why Dolly was a cheek-pincher…

      “My face _is_ pretty, that’s for certain.  And, they’re all whispering now, so I suppose whatever librarian gossip ring that exists is going to be lit up like New Year’s Eve about your greatness making its presence known at their humble gathering.”

      “Oh dear… Father will surely catch wind of it and he shan’t be pleased that I disrupted their important work.”

      “Maybe it’s your _dad_ that has them fluttering, then.  Wondering if you’re phoning in on his order to check to see they’re not faffing about and wasting time when they should be having serious discussions and all that.”

      “You certainly could be correct.  Father is notorious for keeping meetings focused and run tightly to schedule.  He would be most displeased if tomfoolery was occurring and diverting from the intended purpose of your gathering.  He belongs to several professional organizations, so it is very possible his reputation is something of a known quantity, even if he eschews such things as luncheons like the veritable plague.”

      “So they’re either in quivering in awe of your august presence, albeit by phone, or trembling in fear of a dressing down by your dad.”

      “Either one _could_ be responsible.  I cannot give a definitive judgement without more data.”

      “I’ll see what I can do.  So, back to you being awake at this, for you, ungodly hour…”

      “I was not _awake_.  I was _wakened_.  I simply despise London.”

      “What happened?”

      “There was utterly no reason for the rather brutish-looking men to begin fixing some minor problem with the road at precisely the time I should have been in the most comfortable and restful stage of sleep.”

Except, of course, that it was the time for a normal working day to be going about its business and working on the street in the middle of the night would have more dogs on their heels than one irritated mystery writer.

      “Yeah, that can be a bugger when you’re trying to rest.  They have those big jackhammers going?”

      “Beastly machines that should be outlawed.”

      “Write to your MP about it.  It’s their job to see to botherations like that.  In any case, I’m sure your brutish-looking men will be done soon and…”

      “They are no longer a problem.  I sent Charles out to deal with them and he was most successful in the task.”

Oh no.

      “Ok… tell me he didn’t shoot them all and bury them under your gardener’s shed.”

      “That is preposterous.  Charles rarely carries a firearm in London.”

      “Good to know!  I know… he called out their boss and best him in the field of unarmed combat so he’s now their king or something.”

      “That… why on Earth would you imagine such a thing?  Admittedly, Charles is most skilled in self-defense, both unarmed and through the use of a laudable quantity and diversity of weapons, however, he is not a violent man, nor one with monarchical aspirations.”

      “My mistake.  What’d he do, then.  Lend a hand so the work went faster?”

      “He bribed them not to shilly-shally as their sort are apt to do.”

Charles was _the_ man and nobody could convince him otherwise.

      “Much better solution than fisticuffs or a knife fight.  So, you couldn’t go back to sleep?”

      “I shall make the attempt, but I am doubtful I shall see great success.  However, I dd first phone Anthea for an update on certain matters concerning my next book and learned that she was invited by Mummy to join the shopping event and had accepted.”

      “Oh… I can’t see how that’s a good thing for the universe.”

      “Neither can I, especially since she both accepted and seemed most eager about the outing.  I was asked to pass along, since I mentioned that you were the next person I was to phone, that Mr. Anderson has been invited to join them and may consider himself an honorary female for the purposes of the expedition.”

      “Could… could you say that last part again, I’m not sure I understood you properly.”

Greg grabbed Anderson by the collar and dragged his head over so he could listen.

      “The ladies have deemed Mr. Anderson worthy of honorary female status and, as such, is invited to join them for their shopping day.  I have heard that drinks may be involved at one or more points, but I cannot verify that as fact.”

Greg hoped his tears of laughter weren’t visibly streaming down his cheeks. He was positive, though, Anderson’s rude gesture was seen by more than a couple of the genteel folk currently enjoying their lunch.

      “I’ll let him know and I have no doubt he’ll consider that offer very seriously, what with the honor he’s being granted.  It’d be rude to refuse, in my opinion.”

      “Very likely, though… I would not blame him if he did.  Mummy, alone, is a handful but… and this is a secret of the utmost delicacy… I once had to collect her and Anthea from jail.”

      “What!  Oh… oh that’s a terrible thing.”

And by terrible, I mean the best thing in the fucking world.  Go Dolly!

      “Yes… they were enjoying perhaps a few too many drinks at a pub and… in truth it was not entirely their fault in that they were approached by two gentlemen for the purposes of… you can imagine… and reacted somewhat forcefully when the gentlemen were not amenable to their refusal.”

      “Incarcerated for protecting their virtue.  I have to say I applaud them for that.”

      “True, but their methods for protecting their virtue caused a rather significant amount of damage to the pub and to the two gentlemen involved.  As well as three of their friends.”

      “That _is_ impressive.”

      “Father was extremely discombobulated, given he was horrified and proud in continually-shifting proportions.  It took a full day for him to regain any form of equilibrium.”

      “Well, I have no doubt Anderson will make a staunch ally to have on hand if they meet up with another round of bastards.  I know for certain he fights dirty.”

      “That likely shall be another credit in his ledger with Mummy.”

      “Always good to accumulate credits.  So… anything else on your mind or are you just using my droning voice to bore you to into a coma?”

      “Your voice is neither monotone nor possessed of an unvarying cadence.”

      “Thank you.”

      “You are welcome.  I did want to alert you, also, that Anthea has obtained a script outline for my film and will be delivering it to me tonight.”

Greg cocked a look at Anderson who frowned and moved away from Greg’s phone to get on his own and find out why _he_ didn’t have a copy of that because if that was circulating it was guaranteed the fleshing out of the first draft was nearly finished.

      “Ooh… interesting.”

      “I believe so, yes.”

      “Has Anthea read it?”

      “Yes.”

      “What’d she think?”

      “That it requires some degree of work.”

      “How much work?”

      “Not as much, I admit, as I anticipated, but a skilled hand will be necessary to ensure a better product for the final version.”

A skilled hand, from the sound of your voice, you believe to be you.

      “That’s always the way it is, don’t worry about it.  Scripts go through revisions.  Get a general outline that people mostly agree on, then put skin on those bones and then work to make that skin as supple and lovely as possible.  It doesn’t sound too awful, though.  You’re not yelling or sending Anthea in to break a few heads, which I now know is fully within her range of abilities.”

      “I have not personally seen the product, so I am reserving my opinion until such time as it will have an evidentiary basis.”

Ok… if the script, or outline or whatever, was in the usual condition he saw for early drafts, Mycroft would likely explode.  Time to implement life-saving measures.

      “I have an idea.  I haven’t seen it yet, so why don’t I have Anderson get a copy for me and we can look over it together?”

      “I had hoped to read it as soon as possible.”

Of course you did.

      “Not a problem, you’re welcome to stop in at my house again or… I haven’t seen your London home, so I could visit for a bit and we can compare thoughts.”

      “Oh…”

      “Not a good idea?”

      “I had hoped not to see you tonight.”

That’s not good.

      “Why?  Did… Mycroft did I do something wrong last night?  Are you feeling uncomfortable with anything that might have…”

      “NO!  Dear me, Gregory, what gave you that notion?”

      “You not wanting to see me.”

      “Ah… yes, I probably should have provided an explanation so you were not confused.”

      “That would have been helpful, yes.”

      “I shall endeavor to remember in the future.”

      “Good.  So… explain.”

      “Oh!  Right, an explanation.  I am not unaware of the cost in personal energy to you of last night’s impromptu gathering and… I do not want you to suffer undue fatigue when I know well you are most busy and preparing to go abroad.  It would not be kind to overburden you and… I cannot bear the thought of being unkind to you, Gregory, I simply cannot.”

The most special kisses he’d ever known and a man who truly cared about kindness.  How had he gotten this lucky?

      “That’s wonderful of you, Mycroft.  Truly, that is the nicest thing imaginable and I appreciate it more than you can know.  How about a compromise?  You get a good day’s sleep and let me know when you’re awake, again, and ready to start your day… night.  I’ll pop in for a short while, relax with a drink, we’ll look over what they’ve put together and start for home at a very reasonable hour, so I get a little time to kick back with a crap film you’d hate or the last bit a match and you can get on with whatever you have planned for the night, including your own bit of relaxing.”

      “That seems most reasonable.”

      “Is that our plan, then?”

      “Yes, and I will alert both Mummy and Father that we are not to be disturbed, lest they inveigle you into whatever whirlwind of nonsense they care to perpetrate, and your hoped-for rest is scuttled like a ship upon the shoals.”

      “The less inveigling the better.  That’s my new motto.”

      “It is not a particularly good… joke?”

      “You are correct, sir!  It was not a particularly good joke.”

      “I am becoming most adept at noticing your witticisms.”

      “That you are.  Unfortunately, though, I have to say goodbye as they’re taking away the plates and the business part this fine lunch is about to begin.”

      “I hope it is not too tedious.”

      “I’ll let you know tonight.  Bye, Mycroft.  I’m very glad you phoned.”

      “I am as well.  Goodbye, Gregory.”

Greg smiled at his phone before putting it away, then fixed Anderson with a ‘whaddya got for me’ look.

      “Our Anthea has been a busy girl.”

      “Busier than you?”

      “Naughtier, maybe.  She pulled a few strings to get what they had for the script, even though it’s basically nothing more than a general boiling down of Mycroft’s book and some ideas about how it’s going to reworked for the screen.  Not much, but definitely progress.”

      “Anything worrying?”

      “Doubt it, but I’m not going to put my neck on the line since I have no confidence in my ability to predict what Mycroft will or will not find worrying.”

      “True.  Anthea doesn’t seem too concerned, though.”

      “I suspect that’s her play.”

      “Meaning?”

      “Right now they won’t have much beyond the actual basics of the book, which will please our dear writer and buy time before he wants to see anything more,”

      “Toss him a safe bone now because later bones might be a bit trickier?”

      “That’s my thought.”

      “She’s smart, I can’t deny that.”

      “Me, either.  I’ll give her your love at the Girls’ Day Shopping.”

      “Ha!  Oh, that was brilliant.”

      “And it’ll be fun, too.”

      “WHAT!  You’re not going.”

      “The fuck I’m not.  At least, I’ll catch an hour or so of it.  Have my own chat with Anthea, pay my respects to Ms. Dolly and your former significant other, see what I can find for a new shirt or two, then settle in for a conference call I have later about your suntan session in Morocco.  The amount of extremely-insider information I’ll be able to gather on you and your sweet baboo is incalculable.  I’ll have blackmail material to last a lifetime.”

Did Anderson have to rub his hands together in glee?  Of course he did, because he was a bastard.  A bastard with a direct line right to the founts of all deeply-personal, embarrassing knowledge.  Life was a suckfest and the sucking was at its suckstreme best at this exact moment.

      “Mr… Mr. Lestrade?”

Maybe this nice bespectacled person who looked like a younger, slightly chubbier version of Bertie Holmes could break the sucky suction.

      “Yes!  Ready to get started?”

      “Oh, well yes… and we are simply thrilled to have you here today.  Truly, truly thrilled…”

I know thrilled, sir, and yours is a slightly sucky version of said thrilled.  The suck remains!

      “… I… that is _we_ … were curious… was that actually Mycroft Holmes on the phone?”

Mycroft would be so smug he’d glow for days.

      “It was!  A… little matter about the film he wanted to discuss.”

      “Oh my…”

      “Is everything ok?”

You’re quivering!

      “Holmes… was he aware you were… here?”

      “Yeah, he’s very involved with his literacy project and keeps his eye on what’s going on to help promote it.  Got _me_ on board personally!  Netted me like a fish, turned me out onto his rug and wouldn’t let me back into the ocean until I said yes.  Not that it was hard to do because this is something I truly believe is important and deserves all the support I can give.”

      “You… you’ve spoken to him?  “

      “You just saw me on the phone with the man.”

      “In person, I mean?”

Oh my god… this was librarian fanboying.  Quieter, more reserved but this fellow was the John Watson of the library science world.

      “I have had had that honor, yes.  And what an impressive man he is, what with all that talent and intellect.”

      “Oh my… you… do you have any idea how fortunate you are?  Mycroft Holmes… _nobody_ meets him!  It’s as if he’s a phantom!”

They were all tittering with excitement now.  He was giving a report to the Mycroft Holmes Fan Club about meeting their idol and if someone didn’t swoon soon, it’d only be because they were sitting rather close together and there wasn’t a lot of space for a proper swooning, something a librarian fanboy or fangirl wouldn’t want to be seen doing half-arsed for the life of them, since everyone here had read enough books with swoony people in them to how it should be done.

      “Well, I can vouch that he’s real and a highly-interesting person besides.”

      “Do… oh, is there any way you might convince him to make an appearance at one of our meetings?  We have issued invitations in the past, but he has never accepted.  Not a single time.”

Oh my god… this was famous-friend hell!  And it burned… but, he couldn’t deny that It was also a bit of his own just deserts.  His own mates had to suffer people asking for his autograph, photo, introduction and the like and now it was his turn.  Suckarific… really, the suck score was completely off the scale.  Though… if anyone deserved being admired by a devoted fan base it _was_ his dear Mycroft.

      “Oh, I rather doubt that.  As you know, he’s a very private person and keeps himself to himself...”

Not the hopes-crushed face!  No… that’s the worst.  The bitter, bitter worst…

      “… uh, if it helps, though, I can pass along some questions or something you’d like answered.  Nothing about his new book, though…”

Had they just announced free money somewhere?  Why was everyone… oh.  Oops.

      “He’s working on something new?  This very moment!  Oh happy day… did you hear that, Gretchen!  Which series, Mr. Lestrade?  Or is it a stand alone?  Those are always his most intense and challenging works.”

Yes, Anderson… smirk at the man who is now in the deepest, most stinky level of Sucktaculand, where even the demons fear to tread.  At least, with Mycroft’s publication rate, that he’s working on something new isn’t exactly unexpected news.

      “Not a clue!...”

That I’ll reveal, or Mycroft will take a very small knife and use it to remove all of my skin.

      “… but I know he’s happy about it, so I suspect it’ll be something amazing.”

Since that describes all his books, again, not exactly unexpected news.

      “Perfect!  Oh, I simply cannot wait.”

      “I… maybe I can get a signed copy from him when it’s published, and you can… use it for a fundraiser or something.”

That shouldn’t be worth skin-removal.  At least not with a tiny knife.  Maybe with a big one though.  Death would be quick, that was some comfort.

      “That would be truly appreciated.  We oversee several fundraising initiatives and are always looking for showpiece items.  And, of course… our question list?”

Quick death was now off the table.  Hello, searing agony, we’re going to be good friends from this point forward…

      “I’ll see what I can do, I promise.”

      “Oh, thank you, Mr. Lestrade.  What an utterly unexpected delight this has been!  Oh, I suppose we must officially begin, however.  Your introduction will come after my opening remarks.  I only hope my voice does not break from the excitement!”

Greg smiled his highly-practiced smile and slugged Anderson hard under the table since the agent was practically shaking with laughter.

      “You got fanned, Greg. And not in a good way.”

      “It _was_ in a good way, you miserable excuse for a human.  Mycroft appreciation, no matter who it comes from or in what form, is a very good thing.”

      “He’s going to skin you alive with a very small knife.”

      “You stole that from my brain!”

      “ _You_ stole that from your character in _Vector Force_.”

      “I did?  Fuck me, you’re right.  That was such a shit film…”

      “It’s your fifth highest-grossing, though.”

      “My fifth highest-grossing shit.”

      “Nobody would pay for your shit.  Oh…”

      “Don’t go there.  Just don’t do it.”

      “I still say you should have pushed for jail time.”

      “She was sacked from the lab!  That… that was more than enough.”

      “She stole your poo sample from your annual physical exam and tried to sell it on eBay.”

      “Yes, I remember the details though I have tried my very best to forget them and now they’re fresh in my brain again thanks to you.”

      “It’s fresh in my mind now, too.  I’ll have to purge it by telling the story to Dolly and Anthea while we gossip and sip wine.  I’m sure Janine remembers it well enough and can add in her disgusted perspective.  Oh look, seems they’re almost ready for you.  Smile pretty and try not to think of poo.”

      “I hate you.”

      “Then I won’t make certain you get the same accommodations you had the last time you were at the Morocco location.”

      “The one with the private pool and gorgeous views?”

      “Yep.”

      “I still hate you, but I’ll pretend not to if I get my little slice of heaven.”

      “I can live with that.  Ok, put some shine in those eyes, because you’re up.”

Greg immediately slapped on his ‘just thrilled to be here’ expression and dabbed his lips before moving towards the small podium that had been set up for the occasion.  Maybe his grin was a little shinier than normal, but he was representing not only himself, but Mycroft, too, and that demanded every bit of star power he could muster.  Which, if he was to allow himself his own moment of smug, was enough star power to fuel a few dozen galaxies and a toaster, besides…

__________

Star power depleted!  Not in a bad way, though.  More a productive, get-loads-accomplished way and now it was time for the very best way to end it… getting, hopefully, a nice kiss from his Mycroft and relaxing for a quiet hour with someone who valued quiet as much as he did.

Ok… here we go… this was the right address and absolutely the sort of place a wealthy writer would have in London if they hated London and suffered its existence only when necessary.  Gorgeous, traditional, sort of area where everybody knew who lived in every house but pointedly never acknowledged any of them because that’s not what you did in posh neighborhoods like this.  Hopefully, leaving his vehicle at the curb a moment while he found where Mycroft parked his car wouldn’t prompt a mobilization of the military because the non-chauffer-employing rabble were invading.

Just a quick knock and…

      “Gregory!  Flee!  Flee for your very soul!”

If a person’s heart could actually freeze in their chest, Greg’s would be a solid mass of ice from the look on Mycroft’s face.

      “What!  Mycroft, what’s wrong?  Don’t worry about a thing, I’ll handle whoever is…”

      “They are here!  And utterly unrepentant!”

      “Shit.  Ok, you phone the police and I’ll…”

      “For whatever reason would I phone the police?”

And racing back was Mycroft’s normal face, wearing a slightly puzzled expression, instead of a rictus of horror.

      “You phone the fucking police for a home invasion!”

      “My family has invaded my home many times and I have never thought to call the authorities.”

Fucking brilliant.

      “So… there’s not a gang of thugs in there wrecking the place or burgling or whatnot.”

      “Sherlock stole the vast majority of my favorite chocolates, is that the incident to which you are referring?”

      “No… no, I was more referring to the incident where you flung the door open and told me to flee for my very soul.  I can’t imagine a universe in which I’d worry about my soul because Sherlock’s a chocolate thief.”

      “Oh… yes, I see your point.  However, you _must_ flee and this very instant.  I informed them that you were to arrive for a pleasant hour of conversation and… the females are giddy from their shopping… and drinking… Sherlock and Father are most energized about their work at the morgue, John is not willing to step in and evict them, though he is practiced in such things, I am certain, from his time in the military… this is a terrible thing, Gregory.  You must not enter.  It shall be devastating for your calm.”

      “Mycroft…”

      “We agreed to a sedate evening and not a circus parade!  Which I do not mean offensively to circuses, given you were taken to their bosom and provided a start in life.”

First – Mycroft was genuinely upset.  Second – the likelihood of him being able to deflate the tires of the clown cars in this non-offensive circus parade hovered squarely at naught.  Ok… time to rescue the maiden.

      “Let’s go, then.”

      “Pardon?”

      “Let’s go.”

      “Where?”

      “Anywhere.  You and me.  Find our own quiet spot and have it all to ourselves.”

      “Oh… but…”

      “Hold on.”

Greg took out his mobile and sent a quick text.

      “Done.  Nobody is going to start worrying because you vanished.”

      “You informed them?”

      “I texted John.  ‘Rescued Mycroft.  Fuck you, lazy fake-Captain motherfucker.’ ”

      “Gregory!”

      “He’ll appreciate it.  Ready?”

      “I… I have no idea.”

      “Then you’re ready.  Come on.”

Greg extended his pinkie and grinned when Mycroft linked his with it and gave their joined fingers a quick kiss before smiling widely.

      “You have a vehicle?”

      “Yeah, right there.”

      “Where?”

      “Right there.”

      “It is eluding me.”

      “Right.  There.  In front of your face.”

      “No.”

      “There _is_ an actual object in front of you, Mycroft.”

      “It is not yours.”

      “It _is_ mine.”

      “No.”

Uncertain whether to laugh or pout, Greg decided that laughing was truly the right response and did so heartily.

      “Seriously!  Meet my valiant steed!  One of them, at least.  It’s my favorite, though, for puttering about London.”

      “No.”

      “His name is Horse.”

      “No.”

      “Ok, sometimes it’s You Miserable Nag but that’s when it’s having a bit of a day, which we all have once we reach a certain age.  Which _is_ my age, since it’s a 1963 model, just like me!”

      “No.”

      “It’s clean!  Very clean, in fact.  And I had some lads replace the engine and other fiddly bits with the internals of a hybrid vehicle, so he’s eco-friendly, too.”

      “Gregory…”

      “Yes?”

      “That is a… oh my dear lord…”

      “Volkswagen Camper!  Yes.  Though, I prefer the term ‘Bus’ since it sounds more California and that’s where I saw it and had it shipped from when I realized I loved it too much to leave it behind.”

      “They are extinct.”

      “Nope.  Horse lives, and, to be truthful, I do suspect he sneaks out at night to romance lovely little lady cars to keep his genes going in the population.”

      “You…”

Greg’s eyes softened and he steeled himself for another night with the Holmes Family Traveling Circus.

      “It’s alright, Mycroft.  I understand if it’s not quite your thing.  I’m sure you have a room in your lovely house with a door we can barricade and…”

      “It is green.”

      “Turquoise, to be precise.  Original color, for the ‘63 line.”

      “I… I am not averse to green.  Or turquoise, though it can be more problematic if it veers more into a cerulean hue.  The white that sits atop it also helps to… defuse the tableau”

Was there a bit of thawing going on?

      “Care for a closer look?”

      “I… alright.”

As carefully as if he was introducing a cat to water Greg walked Mycroft up to the vehicle, then made a ‘be my guest’ motion to encourage a closer inspection.

      “Check inside, if you’d like, too.  Clean, like I said… absolutely pristine interior.”

      “It… it reminds me of a refrigerator.”

Was that good?

      “Oh, in what way?”

      “I have seen models in films that were similar in color and with a comparably-round silhouette.”

      “One of those retro things… I know the ones you’re talking about.  They’re gorgeous bits of work so Horse and I thank you for the compliment.”

Greg watched Mycroft look over the car with the intensity of focus of a jeweler inspecting a diamond, then look back at the house, at the bus again, then back at the house a final time before huffing a breath and squaring his shoulders.

      “I am ready to depart.”

      “Great!”

Opening the door for his passenger, Greg grinned at the very prim way Mycroft stepped up to take his seat and nestle himself into the padded upholstery.

      “Comfy?”

      “Oddly, yes.”

      “Then on we go.  And the radio works, so you can be king of that.”

      “I do have stellar taste in music.”

Greg shut the door and raced around to the other side to begin The Great Escape.  Him and Mycroft in his vintage VW, toddling about London, talking about the script and whatever else came to mind.  Really, this was a night he couldn’t have predicted, but… it was a night he wanted.  Now, if he could only get Mycroft to wear some love beads and flash a peace sign, the Swinging Sixties could come roaring back…

      “I wonder if I might find a station playing… what were they called?  The Sand Boys?”

Swinging Sixties swinging back to sleep and out comes sunshine, surfing and, oh yes, sand…

      “Do you mean The Beach Boys?”

      “Yes!  That is it.  Mummy finds them most entertaining.  They _are_ an appropriate choice for your… vehicle… are they not?”

      “Absolutely!  Hold on a moment…”

Greg snatched up his phone and quickly did a search through his streaming music service to find the night’s soundtrack.

      “Here we go.  A Surfin’ Safari playlist with The Beach Boys, The Ventures, Jan and Dean and a few others to accompany us on our adventure.”

      “Excellent!  I feel almost… wild.”

      “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

      “It does.  I would not at all be surprised if this night ended with the top button of my shirt undone in the most carefree of fashions.”

      “Can I have a photo of that?”

      “Will… you keep it private?”

      “For my eyes only.”

      “Then, yes.  I shall proudly be your personal… centerfold.  That is the correct term, I believe.”

      “It’s as close to correct as a term can be!”

Without actually being correct in the slightest.

      “Bravo to me, then!  Onward, Gregory.  Our night awaits!”

Greg started the music going and put the VW in gear to get it moving towards whatever destination awaited.  Or maybe they’d just drive about enjoying the sights and night air.  Either way, it was going to be brilliant.  _Mycroft_ was brilliant, in so many ways, so it only stood to reason and Greg Lestrade was a man with a healthy respect for reason…


	36. Chapter 36

Mycroft Holmes daintily drawing up a perfect vanilla milkshake through a straw was the epitome of adorable, but the tiny confused crinkling of his nose shot the scene off the scale and into the cuteness stratosphere.

      “The premise simply lacks foundation.”

      “It’s a matter of opinion, Mycroft.  That really doesn’t need a foundation.”

      “The evidence offered, such as it is, is not strongly convincing.”

      “I doubt they put that much thought into preparing a legal case for it.”

      “It still seems most narrow-minded to wish they all could be California girls.  And what defines a California girl?  Must one be born there?  Live there all their lives?  Are those who immigrate from other areas excluded from this exalted group?  The melody is most peppy, but I feel the lyrics would have benefitted from a more logical bard wielding the proverbial pen.”

Greg made the slurp of his chocolate shake as loud and annoying as possible, giving Mycroft his largest, most innocent eyes when the writer wagged a reproaching finger at him.

      “You are most fortunate that you bought my goodwill with this very refreshing delicacy.”

      “Best ones in London, so sayeth Anderson, who is an encyclopedia of food knowledge for any city he’s visited.”

      “A very useful skill.  And the chips were exceptionally prepared.”

      “Guaranteed to be delicious, but not grease up your fingers.”

      “I am highly pleased.”

Which made the bit of convincing required before Mycroft would try their impromptu snack completely worth the time.  Watching his passenger nibble chips and savor his creamy shake, all while bathed in the lights of London, was a sight Greg knew he’d never forget.

      “Good.  Then that’s something we can do when you’re next in London.  Take in a few Anderson recommendations and see if they match his critique.”

      “Ooh, I am always eager for the chance to verify a claim.”

      “I am officially making note of that.   So, anywhere you particularly want to go now?  There are a few galleries not too far from here and I’d love to have you show me about the British Library from an insider’s perspective, if they’re still open.  The night’s open to possibility!”

      “Hmmm… both of those options hold appeal, however, I cannot bring with me my repast into either a gallery or the Library.”

      “We’ll make sure the very last bit of your delicious repast is safely in your stomach before we make a decision, then.  For the moment, I’m happy just to drive about and watch the people bustling hither and yon.”

      “Is it… relaxing?”

The concern in Mycroft’s voice was impossible to miss and Greg smiled warmly at how lucky a man he was.

      “Very, actually.  There’s something about driving that _is_ relaxing, oddly enough.  Not if you’re stuck in traffic and late for an appointment, but when you’ve got no particular place to be and can simply wander wherever you please.”

      “Ah, I understand.  It is much the same when I take my valiant steed out for the night.”

      “Very much the same, I’d say.  I’ll happily chauffer you about London in Horse and you can chauffer me about your property in Herbie.  The Two H’s!  Even our steeds are well-matched.”

Mycroft found himself giggling before he could stop himself, then decided that there was no reason _to_ stop himself since, first, his Gregory’s words were true and, second, giggling in front of Gregory produced no distress whatsoever, so why not enjoy a moment of laughter when it was appropriate?

      “Verily, the synergy is inspiring.”

      “That it is.  You’re inspiring, Mycroft, even more than our steeds.  I am amazed every day by how you challenge me, get my mind working, cause me to see things through different eyes… how you make me want to be the best person I can be, since a guttersnipe isn’t worthy of someone like you.  It sounds silly, maybe, but that is how I feel and I’m enjoying every minute of it.”

Mycroft never considered himself a terribly emotional man, but the surge of feeling in him, hearing Greg’s words, was something that drew his previous self-assessment into question.

      “Th… thank you, Gregory.  That is a sentiment I both appreciate greatly and return wholeheartedly.”

      “I’d give you a kiss if I wasn’t driving.”

Mycroft stuck his finger out in front of Greg’s lips and beamed brightly when it received a loud and satisfying kiss.

      “Genius!  My Mycroft is a genius.  And in every way imaginable.”

      “There are likely a few, a very scant few, areas in which I do not excel.”

      “I suspect they’re not highly relevant for your life, anyway, like lumberjacking or inspecting chickens.”

      “I… I can envision the general reason one would inspect a chicken, but I genuinely am not certain which parameters of chicken-ness are subject to health and safety approval.”

      “That’s why it’s on your not-excel list.”

      “Point taken.  Gregory…”

The tone of Mycroft’s voice shifted slightly and Greg made sure not to jump in and ask what was wrong, because this felt like something Mycroft needed to say or not say on his own.

      “Yeah?”

      “I know that there have been areas where I lacked expertise and you have been both patient and helpful growing my skillset.”

Oh, one of those talks.  Careful treading required…

      “Thank you.  That’s nice of you to say.”

      “You are welcome.  As we progress further with our relationship, I foresee another area where both patience and assistance will be necessary, and I would like to… apologize is not the right word… notify, I suppose will have to do… I would like to notify you in advance that I am sexually inexperienced and while I know you are _highly_ -experienced in this area, I foresee we shall manage our intimate interactions very successfully if our current model continues unmodified.”

His Mycroft deserved far better than a ‘wha?’ for a response, so Greg opted to buy time for his brain to start working again, by nodding sagely and motioning Mycroft’s hand up for another finger kiss, something with which the writer eagerly complied.

      “I… I have full intention of continuing on with our current model in its present form, Mycroft, but thanks for the notification.  It was very… informative and... helpful for planning purposes.”

      “Yes, I thought it would be.   Father, also, argued for upfront disclosure and he is generally correct about such things.”

      “You… talked with your dad about our… future sex life.”

      “He broached the topic initially, but he _is_ apt to be proactive on topics of import.”

      “That’s… that’s very efficient.”

      “Most certainly.”

      “You… did you and your mum have a chat about…”

      “Good heavens, no!  My word… the mere thought is horrifying!  Besides, she is woefully lacking in either diagrammatic or chart-making talent.”

      “Oh… I can see why you’d skip that talk, then.”

      “It would not only congeal my brain tissue, it would also lack any sense of organization or clarity of hypothesis.”

Should he?  There seemed to be an opening and Mycroft seemed fairly alright the conversation, besides the potential threat of a congealed brain…

      “In all that organization and clarity, did you or your dad, on your timeline, I mean, have an idea when the sexual interactions were going to happen?  Again, just for planning purposes, you understand.”

      “Now that I have seen your work schedule, I easily see why that is necessary and I approve of your intent to effectively manage your time, which is in tragically short supply.  Would it be helpful if I provided you with a copy of Father’s chart so you might integrate the two?”

      “Ummm… sure, or we can just chat about it, in general terms.”

      “I feel a more productive discussion would have the greatest possible leaning towards detail.”

The detail being a sex chart made by your dad.  Was there a shop in London that sold milkshakes laced with whisky?   There should be.  There should be one straight ahead who would gladly take his cash in exchange for something to make that example of dad crafts easier to contemplate.

      “Ok.  Ok… we can do detail.  You… you can email me your chart and I’ll… give it a look while I’m away.  Unless… do I have time for that?  Are we supposed to be… doing things… while you’re here in London?  Shit!  You’ve got to inspect my sheets, love, because they’re not necessarily sedate or tasteful and I don’t want you ready for some sexy fun and you’re put off by my Star Wars pillowcases!”

      “I… Star Wars?  The film?”

      “Yeah and we can watch it after you verify my bed linens won’t kill the mood.  I’ve got others!  Doctor Who, Iron Man, Harry Potter, Star Trek, Arsenal, Mickey Mouse … I… do you want a list?  I can make a list at home, even send photos… why are my sheets so shit…”

      “Gregory… I cannot comment at this time, but I do suspect, if I am to find myself sharing your bed at some point, an agreement must be reached beforehand on the visual, as well as tactile, aspects of your bedlinens.  I suspect towels will require negotiation, as well.”

      “That’s smart.  And fair.  I’m six, if you haven’t guessed.”

      “Your preferences for certain things _are_ somewhat childish.”

      “Yeah… forgive me?”

      “Hmmmm…”

      “That sounds bad.”

      “Rather it is more I am considering whether the situation is one for which forgiveness is relevant.”

      “That sounds worse.”

      “I would not support that position.  It is more that your preferences are, by definition, _yours_ , and, therefore, are not something for which I had a hand in sculpting.  An apology would be required if we had an agreement on, say, your draperies and you violated that agreement, either by choice or accident.”

      “Oh.  Ok, I see your point.  Can I apologize for any pain I cause your eyes when you see them?”

      “Hmmmm…”

      “Uh oh.”

      “Yes.  In that case, it would be _polite_ to offer an apology, though an argument can be made that it is not strictly _necessary_ , given you have no control over the aesthetic sensitivity of my eyes.”

      “Got it.  And, you’re forewarned now, so you can wear sunglasses to shield your sensitive eyes from the aesthetic horror.”

      “That would require, I suspect, hoodwinks.”

      “I’ll find a shop that sells them.  Kiss?”

Greg held up his finger and pointedly did not laugh as Mycroft used a tissue to first wipe it clean before applying the requested kiss.

      “An excellent kiss, sir.  I think Horse is having a stimulating effect on your kissery.”

      “That is not a… I see.”

      “Fake word fantasyland!  Horse is good for that, too.  Puts me in a carefree mood when I’m in the proverbial saddle.  In fact…”

Greg was very happy he’d worn a button-up, because it allowed his carefree self to fly free, as he unbuttoned the top _two_ buttons in a move that made Mycroft gasp in surprise.

      “Gregory!  You have revealed yourself.”

      “That sounds filthy.  I like it.”

      “Dear me…”

      “And you can’t say this is boiling your eyes, because I know you’ve seen at least some of my films, and photos, where more shows than a few wisps of my sad, gray chest hairs peeking out, and you are still very much in possession of your vision.”

      “I did not say your physique was eye boiling.”

      “No, you didn’t, that is very true.  So… you _like_ what you see, then.”

      “I… it would be untruthful to say I did not.”

      “And you are not an untruthful person.  Ahhh… this feels good, too.  Bit of a breeze catching my skin…”

Greg made the time-honored gesture of tugging at the front of his shirt several times to stimulate further air flow to his skin and gave an exaggerated sigh of relief at the end to emphasize his breezy freshness.

      “Gregory…”

      “Yes?”

      “You seem rather comfortable exposing yourself.”

      “Again, that sounds filthy and I like it.”

      “It was more a statement that you are not reticent about displaying your body.”

      “Can’t say I am, to a point.  There’s appropriate displaying and inappropriate.  I stay away from the inappropriate area, like walking about bare-arsed in the market when I stop in to buy bananas.”

      “Are there many people who _do_ that?”

      “I’ve not seen any and there’s not been an emergency report on the news saying we’re overrun by naked banana buyers, so I suspect the answer is no.”

      “That is a decided relief.  As is your acknowledgement that nudity is not something that should be flagrantly perpetrated on the general public.”

      “Unless they purchase a ticket specifically to see that very thing.”

      “I… yes, I suppose that is true.”

      “Don’t worry, Mycroft… it won’t drain your coffers too much to see me naked.  My rates are _very_ reasonable.”

It took Mycroft a moment to realize Greg was joking and he felt somewhat smug that, first, he did catch the joke and, second, that he was romantically linked with someone who people _did_ pay to see in a very nearly naked state.  And clamored for more.

      “Shall I prepare an invoicing system for my witnessing your physical offerings?”

      “That _also_ sounds filthy and I like it as much as the rest.”

      “I am beginning to suspect that I am not the only member of this pair with a tawdry streak.”

      “Oh, mine isn’t anywhere equal to yours.  You are one of those male demons that goes about seducing the innocent.  Like me.”

      “Are… are you the demon or the innocent?”

      “My grammar failed me, didn’t it?”

      “Yes, your sentence was rather obtuse in meaning.”

      “Then, you can decide for yourself which one I meant.”

Greg popped a third button and laughed when Mycroft’s hand actually rose to his mouth in shock.

      “Gregory!”

      “Gregory’s been possessed by a sex demon and can’t come to the phone now, so please leave a message, as filthy as you like, and he’ll return your call when and if he returns from being randy and demonic.”

      “Well, I never…”

      “I’ve got skin, lots of skin, lots of beautiful skin, not as lovely as my Mycroft’s, but it’s still a bit of sin…”

Mycroft opened his mouth to comment on Greg’s singing voice, then felt something unusual wash over him.  Contentment.  It was not a common feeling, unless he was safely at home, with all proceeding according to his normal routine and every discomfiting influence well and truly quashed, but he was feeling it now, in this ridiculous vehicle, sitting next to a ridiculous man who was positively radiant in his ridiculousness.  It seemed there was nothing else for it…

      “Mycroft!  You have debuttoned!”

      “That I have.”

      “One full button is now derelict of duty.”

      “And proudly so.”

      “Proudly is right… that is a bloody amazing thumb-sized area you’ve got exposed to the elements.”

      “I am well aware.”

      “Feeling good about your flagrant exposure?”

As if Mycroft’s wide smile wasn’t answer enough.

      “Yes.  I find that I am.  I will, however, rebutton my shirt should we encounter more faint-hearted citizens or disembark the vehicle.”

      “That’s very considerate of you.”

      “I am noted for my consideration of others.”

It was taking everything possible for Greg to hold in his laughter and he took it as a pity move by the universe that Mycroft’s mobile rang to distract his adorable writer before he made any further cheek-pinchable remarks.

      “Yes?  Mummy, we are… hmmmm.   Why did you not… no, I am not blaming you.  Not entirely, that is.  Your genes are rampant in Sherlock, Mummy, so why are, at all, surprised by this.  Yes, I concede the point that the rampant-gene argument cannot be used for… what?  Oh… me?  Yes, of course, there is some merit to that.  I will.  I promise I will   Mummy… Mummy please do sound so… distressed.  I will.  I promise, Mummy.  Yes, I will keep you informed.  Goodbye, Mummy.”

Greg’s laughter had quickly extinguished itself and he was now extremely concerned about the context of Mycroft’s conversation.

      “Mycroft?  Is everything alright?”

      “No.  Not it is not.”

      “What’s wrong?”

      “It… it is Father.”

      “Shit… ok, which hospital is he in?  Do we need to collect your mum or…”

      “Father is not in hospital.  Why would you believe that?”

      “Because, I asked what’s wrong and you left it at ‘it is Father.’  That’s normally code for someone is dead or someone more than halfway there.”

      “Oh dear… I did not mean to give you that impression.”

      “Then un-give it by telling me what has you troubled.”

      “Sherlock received a call from the Detective Inspector with whom he often works and was notified of a case.  A murder.”

      “Ok… I’m still at a loss.”

      “Father decided that he wished to come along to observe.”

      “I’m… hurray for your dad?”

      “A murder, Gregory.  A violent murder, the perpetrator of which this Dimmock person is hoping Sherlock locates.”

That was actually beginning to veer into the area of worrying.

      “But, then he phones the police, right, and that’s that?”

      “Please remember that this is Sherlock to whom you are ascribing a sense of responsibility.”

      “Shit.  This is bad.”

      “Yes, especially since Sherlock is exceedingly good at his work.”

      “Any help from John on this front?”

      “Doctor Watson… he has a very lurid lust for danger.”

      “Ok, lurid and lust are not what we need right now.  Any idea where they’re going?”

      “Yes, Mummy made Sherlock disclose the address.”

      “Off we go, then.  Is our plan to convince or kidnap your dad away from the violent murdery danger?”

      “Whichever is more effective.”

      “Alright.  Keep an eye out for a shop that sells ropes or chains or something, because I don’t think your dad will meekly accept a kidnapping.”

      “Very true.  Perhaps the constables might lend us a set of their handcuffs.”

      “We can hope.  Ok… step one, button our shirts.  This is serious shit.”

      “Yes, buttoning is mandatory.”

      “Second… finish your shake because you deserve every last bit of sweet you can get.  May be the last you see tonight.”

Something Mycroft decided should take priority, even over buttoning and quickly put his straw between his lips to begin emptying his cup, uncaring, for once, about the sound it produced.  Gregory was most correct… not a drop of this deliciousness should be sacrificed for Father’s elderly display of incaution.  There would be rebukes for this… many and strident.  Not a single member of their Trio of Terror would be spared.  And he had Gregory at his side to echo his displeasure, meaning the chastisement would be ferocious, indeed.  The man was an actor after all, with the fire of disquietude to inspire his performance…


	37. Chapter 37

      “Ok… well, this looks bad.”

A sentiment that had Mycroft’s full agreement, given the numerous uniformed officers milling about, the ambulance, the various onlookers and the occasional reporter trying to creep past the officers to gain access to the crime scene.  He had written scads of murder scenes in his career, but honestly never imagined the environment surrounding them to be so… haphazard and untidy.

      “Mummy emphasized the word ‘violent’ several times, so I suspect it is a somewhat gruesome crime, which always attracts interest.”

      “Yeah… well, we now have a little problem.”

      “Which is.”

      “Me.”

      “I… I do not understand.”

      “Well, given I don’t see anyone we know in the immediate vicinity, one of two things is possible.  First is they already left and we’ll need to ask where they’ve gone off to.  Second, they’re inside and we’d have to get in there or ask someone to take a message to get one of them to come out here.  Either way… I honestly don’t know what I was imagining, but it wasn’t you and me stepping out of Horse in front of a crowd of people and reporters to insert ourselves in a police investigation.  That… it’s going to be online by the time we even get a constable’s attention.”

      “Yes, I see your point.  You are somewhat recognizable.  Can… have we sufficient materials to fashion for you a disguise?”

Greg looked at their empty milkshake cups and chips bag and gave Mycroft a rather brittle smile.

      “No?”

      “Hmmm… have you no jacket?”

      “I do, behind you.  But, I’ll tell you now that the jacket over the head trick only serves to draw more attention to you and isn’t the best idea when that’s what you’re trying to avoid.”

      “But they will not see your face.”

      “Which is why the constables might bat me across the head and toss me in the back of a police vehicle for suspicion of some wrongdoing that they’ll bother to fathom out later.”

      “I have more faith in our constabulary than that.”

      “Why do I suspect that if someone was walking towards us with their jacket thrown over their head, you’d ask me to subdue them for suspicion of nefariousness.”

      “I… that is fair.”

      “And, just so you won’t feel offended that I didn’t ask… do you want to go out there and do the asking?”

      “Oh… that… I…no.  That is not something I would wish to do.  Though I will… if I must.”

The growing unease in Mycroft’s eyes was all the more heartbreaking knowing that his Mycroft _would_ go out there, as uncomfortable as he would be trying to move through the crowd and talk to policemen to get to his family.

      “Nah, it’s ok.  I can do it easily enough, it’ll just take a bit more time to find out what’s what with reporters sticking microphones in my face.  That DI you mentioned… what was his name?”

      “Dimmock.”

      “Ok, I’ll ask if he’s about and maybe I can get him off to the side for a quick chat.”

      “Would you care to phone him in advance to arrange your meeting?”

Greg had a small ‘look into the camera’ moment and cleared this throat softly before bringing a ‘are you fucking kidding me?’ smile to his lips.

      “You have his number?”

      “Yes.”

      “And… it didn’t occur to you to just phone the man?”

      “Ah, yes.  I see how that would have been a parsimonious route to our goal rather than another path we might be contemplating.”

      “Phone him and ask if your dad’s there.  If not, ask if he knows where they are.  If he _is_ there, get Mr. DI to send him out, by police escort if necessary, for a little chat.”

      “An excellent suggestion!”

Mycroft was a genius.  The man had an intellect that was awe-inspiring.  It was those pesky little life details that eluded him…

      “Ah, Detective Inspector Dimmock.  No… this is not Detective Sergeant Campbell, which is likely a good thing given the sharp tone of your words.  No, I am also not a reporter.  My name is Mycroft Holmes and… the fat one?  How could you begin to assess my physical shape given we have never met?  Oh… yes, that is typical for him, however, I do not appreciate your first greeting to me being based on one of Sherlock’s slanders, not that a hefty frame is a definitive indicator of sluggardly habits or gluttony, so an argument can be made that it is not, in itself, a slander.  Pardon?  Oh, I am phoning to ascertain if my brother is on the premises and if he… I see.  Yes, I was aware of that.  Yes, I am also aware of that.  Were _you_ not aware that I am not Sherlock’s father and that his _actual_ father was apparently within scolding distance, something I cannot claim except through the use of technology?  Was that a serious question?  Are you not surrounded by a brace of individuals under your command?  Did you not think to have any one of them evict Sherlock and his proverbial Greek chorus?  I _shall_ tell you your job when you obviously fail to take properly the reins of command and exercise your authority as bestowed by your superiors.  In fact, what are their names?  I shall script a letter tonight detailing my dissatisfaction with your performance.  Pardon?  Is that supposed to be amusing?  I am very aware that Chief Inspector Japp is a character from Dame Christie’s Poirot novels.  I write mysteries for a living your ridiculous buffoon!   Yes, _that_ Mycroft Holmes.  How many of us do you believe there are in this world?  Very well, I shall credit you with the point of Sherlock being loony and not always faithful to the truth.  Pardon?  I shall decide once I have conferenced with Gregory.  Good day to you, sir.”

      “You put that poor bastard through the ringer. Nicely done!”

      “He was most rude, and I cannot abide rudeness, especially when it is clearly undeserved.”

      “I also gathered our quarry is not on site.”

      “Yes, they have departed, but only moments ago.  Continue on our current direction and we may spot them before they can hail a cab.”

Greg gave Horse a proverbial nudge with his spurs and pulled away from the crime scene as nonchalantly as he could, given the few looks they’d been shot by the constables assigned to keep the peace out on the pavement.  Fortunately, the looks were more of the ‘what’s your game?’ than ‘It’s Greg Lestrade!’ so no use tempting fate by lingering.

      “Alright, keeping my eyes open…”

      “I would hope that to be the case, given you are driving.”

      “That too!  Also, to look for our little crime-solving club.”

      “Ah, yes.  Fortunately Father tends to slow Sherlock’s pace to that of a snail, given they both have an extreme capacity for nitpicking and might stop for hours to debate some ludicrously insignificant point of an issue.”

Knowing it would begin their own hours-long debate if he said ‘kettle, you’re black,’ Greg simply nodded and kept his eyes focused on the path in front of them, hoping to find innocent bystanders racing away from the nitpickery as a sign they were getting close.  Finally seeing John step out of the shadows to have a seat on a conveniently-placed bench was close enough.

      “There.”

      “Yes, I see him.  And… both Father’s and Sherlock’s characteristic silhouettes near that window.”

Where they seemed to be doing exactly as Mycroft predicted by being deeply involved in arguing about something or other, which made Greg pulling up to the curb and tooting the horn not quite as attention-getting as he’d hoped.  A few more of Horse’s cheery honks, though, finally cut through the verbal combat.

      “Get in losers and we aren’t going shopping.”

The five solid minutes of being harangued and interrogated about his words was a peaceful time for Greg, since he wasn’t actually required to answer, given the Holmes family was content to take the debate into a closed circle and simply lob their words between themselves, with only an occasional, perfunctory reminder that he was the originator of the enigmatic incantation.  However, given they were likely disturbing the peace, from a legal standpoint, the put-upon actor decided it was time to take action.

      “Can we continue this inside my car rather than out on the street?”

      “We are not on the street, Lestrade!”

      “Thank you, Sherlock.  Can we continue this inside my car rather than out on the _pavement_?”

      “I am not entirely certain your automobile is properly classed as a car.  I am not fully aware of the motor vehicle classifications as recognized by the government, but it would seem somewhat of a regulatory stretch to include it in the same category as a typical Vauxhall Corsa or even another species of Volkswagen, such as the Golf.”

      “Thank you, Mr. Holmes.  Can we continue this inside my _vehicle_ rather than out on the pavement?”

      “I am not setting foot in your… hippie van!”

      “Thank you, again, Sherlock.  John?  Little help?”

John made a BAFTA-worthy show of contemplating the question, before shaking his head no, mostly to see what Greg would do in response.

      “Fucking traitor.  Mycroft, do you want your dad or your brother?”

      “I… I do not understand the question.”

      “Doing this alone it is, then.”

Hopping out of the driver’s seat, Greg opened the rear door of his beloved Horse, then stalked forward to scoop up Sherlock and toss him inside, hissing at John who dove in afterwards like a teen crowding into someone’s dad’s car for a night out with his mates.

      “Now you, Mr. Holmes.”

      “You do not intend to manhandle me in such a fashion, do you?”

      “Yes sir, I do.”

      “Oh.   Very well, one moment.  Mycroft?  Use your phone and take a video of the manhandling. Your mother would appreciate it greatly.  And do take care of my spectacles, Gregory.  I have with me a spare pair, but they are not as comfortable as this one and I do have a book I would like to read tomorrow, which I prefer to be done with comfortable eyewear, as well as lighting.”

His Mycroft couldn’t be arsed to help with the lifting, but he _could_ whip out his mobile in the blink of an eye to film the non-spectacle-damaging manhandling, which _may_ have gone slower and more dramatically than with Sherlock so the intended recipient of the video got the most for her money.

      “Excellent!  Gregory, that was a stellar performance.”

      “Thank you, Mycroft.  I couldn’t have done it without your dad.”

      “Yes, Father’s air of righteous indignation was palpable. Mummy will be most pleased.”

Greg refrained from slamming the door out of respect to his trusty steed and returned to his seat to take a deep breath before turning around to confront the miscreants.

      “Alright, you three.  What got into your heads that made this seem like a good idea?”

      “You are interfering with my investigation, Lestrade!”

      “You’re interfering with my _life_ , Sherlock!”

      “Which is, no manner, as important or interesting as this case.”

      “First, fuck you. Second, I need to stop swearing so much.  Third, do you have any idea how upset Dolly was?  She was beside herself with worry!”

      “Dorothy misconstrued the situation and applied to it more concern than was warranted.”

      “Your dear wife was upset that her husband was gadding about London chasing a violent murderer.  How exactly is that a… misconstrument?”

      “That is not a word.”

      “It is one of Gregory’s intentionally-fake words, Father, and not an indicator of poor vocabulary skills.”

Hopefully.

      “I do not appreciate the English language suffering willy-nilly bastardization, as well you know, Mycroft.”

      “I do, however, one must tolerate in others an honest attempt at humor, even if one is not entirely approving of it.”

      “Mycroft… you don’t like my fake words?”

Greg’s stricken face struck to Mycroft’s core and he mentally flailed a moment trying to grasp a soothing phrase or two from the vast storehouse of phrases he housed in his brain.

      “I… no, Gregory, that was not my point.”

      “HA!  I am not the one interfering in your life, Lestrade, it is Mycroft!  You may as well become accustomed to it now, for Mycroft is a veritable black hole of joy and sucks from everyone and everything what shred of happiness he can to feed his gaping, humorless maw.”

      “Your pot-stirring, brother, is wholly unappreciated and inappropriate now, given the circumstances.  My point was to remind Father that his protectionist views of language must take into account situations where the bastardization is being committed as a knowing amusement and the offender has no intention of causing lasting harm to our mother tongue.”

The reason why none of the Holmes males could likely make it down a London street in less than a fortnight was alive and well in Horse and Greg shook his head a moment to clear it of mental detritus, then flashed a rude gesture at the happily-grinning John and jumped back into the fray.

      “HOW ABOUT I forego the use of fake words for the time being and let’s refocus on the matter at hand.”

      “Your ruining of my investigation!”

      “No, Sherlock, because you are free to go off and play Miss Marple, but without dragging your dad along to be bludgeoned while you try and sneer the perpetrator into submission.”

      “I do not sneer!”

      “Why should I not participate in this investigation?  I am an adult fully in possession of his faculties and empowered to make decisions concerning my own welfare.”

Gonna leap in here at some point, Mycroft?  Oh, you’re looking at your video.  Back to me then.

      “I agree with that, Mr. Holmes, and I’d say if the investigation was about something other than a bloody murder, it’d be a fantastic opportunity, but there’s genuine danger here and that’s not something a body should lark about with without some degree of experience.”

      “Which is gained how, pray tell, other than from actual participation?”

      “Uhh… I’m sure there are loads of books on the topic.”

      “False.  No, I correct myself.  There is an appreciable quantity of books on the topic, however, they do not substitute for an in-situ training experience.”

      “Sir, think of your wife.  What it’ll do to her having to visit you in hospital or, worse, at the morgue because this murderer fellow had a go at your skull with a spanner.”

      “We have already deduced that the murder was not committed with a spanner.  Though the victim _was_ killed by head trauma, so that point of your assertion remains valid.”

      “Fine then, because this murderer fellow had a go at your skull with a… piece of rebar.”

Mycroft’s offline blinking was adorable.  And he came by it honestly through genetics.

      “I… I am unfamiliar with that term.”

Greg made mental note to record the date and time of that statement in his diary for posterity.

      “It’s that steel reinforcement they put in concrete and the like.”

      “Ah, yes, I _have_ seen that.  And… hmmmmm… it is rounded, is it not?”

      “Yeah, with ridgy bits running around it, I suppose to better latch on to the concrete.”

      “Around the cylinder, you say.  Sherlock… are you paying attention?”

      “Unfortunately, yes.”

The volume of petulance dripping from Sherlock’s tone could fill a swimming pool.

      “The cousin, Sherlock.”

      “That has not been proved conclusively.  Yet.”

      “He is a builder.”

      “True…”

      “There is no shame in having another’s knowledge contribute to a problem, Sherlock.”

      “I _would_ have discovered the nature of the murder weapon!  In due course…”

      “As I said, there is no shame in not having at one’s mental fingertips every piece of knowledge known to humanity.  I suggest we hasten to the cousin’s flat and affect a citizen’s arrest.”

Greg’s small moment of conversational peace exploded like a grenade and he was simply happy he didn’t toss Mycroft’s mobile out the window in payback for being utterly useless right now in managing this sack of cats.

      “NO!  No, what did I just tell you, sir, about hastening off to have your skull caved in?”

      “Irrelevant in light of this new information.  Sherlock, provide Gregory the location of the perpetrator’s residence so we may commence.  Now that we have transport, this shall proceed far quicker.”

Greg looked again at Mycroft, who was now being shown by John how to do some video editing on his phone to make his masterpiece all the more masterpiecey, and wondered if his glee at being treated no differently than any other person was a mistake, given the family into which he’d been dropped.  Anyone else would pay heed to the proclamations of Greg Lestrade, film star extraordinaire, but not this lot.  Might as well be the milkman.  He had a van, too, and with empty shake cups on the floor, so the image was very close to the mark…

      “Look… if, and I do mean _if_ , I agree to take you there, will you agree to phone the police and let them do the actual apprehending while we observe their procedures from afar?”

      “Certainly not!  I must first independently verify the hypothesis!”

      “Sherlock… can you, this one time, be agreeable?”

      “No.”

      “Mr. Holmes?”

      “I am always agreeable.”

      “That wasn’t what… it doesn’t matter.  Onward we go to certain death and I’ll make a point to have us all assigned to adjacent cells in hell so I can make your afterlives miserable for all eternity.”

As the debate then began concerning the physical existence of hell and the likelihood of a prison-like system forming its base structure, Greg put his bus in gear and started in the direction of the area indicated by the address Sherlock had tossed forward onto the seat.  Maybe, _maybe_ , with him and Mycroft now in the mix, there might be a tiny extra degree of caution given to whatever leapt into these loonies’ heads.  Of course, that could also be a load of shit and pure wishful thinking.  From his success so far, shit scenario was winning by a very large nose…

__________

      “Intolerable!  I am the lead investigator and direct my dismal excuse for assistants as I choose!”

John had to admit that it was nice to see Sherlock treat everyone on their ragtag team the way _he_ was normally treated on a case.  In fact, Sherlock was usually less rude about it with him… on balance… than now, so it was actually, in its roundabout way, a compliment.

      “Sherlock!  How dare you call Father a dismal excuse!”

      “I am not, Waddlecroft, for Lestrade has prohibited him from acting as an assistant for this case.  You, however…”

      “I say… that is most uncharitable.”

      “I don’t care.  And you are fat.”

Feeling a brotherly squabble priming to erupt, Greg glared at John while he tossed a wadded paper napkin at Sherlock’s head, cleaning snapping the detective’s connection to his brother as Sherlock began hissing and flailing at the offending item like a cat responding to an attack by a feathery toy on a string.

      “Sherlock, exactly how were you going to direct your capable assistants before I suggested you and John go check about inside the building, with me and Mycroft looking around the perimeter for anything suspicious.”

Which would be zero, but make Mycroft feel like he was being included.

      “I… that is entirely beside the point!”

      “Speaking of points, why don’t you take the one atop your head, along with the rest of you, towards what you keep claiming is _your_ investigation and let’s see this over and done with so the rest of us can get on with our evening.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but found his arm linked with John’s and pulled towards the unassuming building that housed their suspect’s flat.  It really was amazing, to the doctor’s mind, how much calmer and rational Sherlock was when there were no family members around to draw about the rather bratty inner child that otherwise spent its time quietly reading and doing experiments when it wasn’t being incited to take control of its host and create a universe of chaos.

      “Ok, Mycroft, let’s wander about and see what’s what.  Mr. Holmes, we won’t be long.”

Which apparently meant nothing since Greg’s first look back found the elder Holmes walking directly behind him.

      “Sir… why are you following us?”

      “Because I have assigned myself to your investigatory party.”

      “Father, you entered into an agreement!”

      “I agreed not to participate in Sherlock’s investigation.  I am honoring that agreement.  I did not, however, agree not to participate in yours or Gregory’s.”

      “That is the most fiendish pettifoggery imaginable!”

      “I assure you that it is not.”

      “Return to the vehicle at once!”

      “I think not.  I believe I spy a rear entrance to the building and we should take steps to secure it should the malefactor attempt to flee justice.”

      “I refuse to obstruct an egress that could be necessary in case of a fire.”

      “We are not welding shut the door, Mycroft, simply fabricating a rudimentary, and temporary, barricade to thwart an escape by our quarry.”

Realizing he wasn’t necessary for this discussion, but recognizing that it occupied both Holmes men in a manner that didn’t put them in danger, Greg simply drew in a breath and wished he had a pack of fags in the car, so he could indulge in one of his extremely-occasional smokes to pass a quiet moment.  Not that the quiet part fit but, it would have been welcome, nonetheless.

The quiet part _especially_ didn’t fit as a flurry of events happened, all loud, beginning with the crash above them that had all three investigators looking up to see John’s body falling from the window a floor above them, scored by Sherlock’s clearly distressed shout as he ran to the window to see what had become of John who, fortunately, had landed on a patch of dirt that, seemingly, had been freshly tilled in preparation for planting more of the shrubs that were dotting the grounds.  Next was a second crash, this one due to the unbarricaded rear door as it collided with the person at the center of their investigation, who was far larger than any of the newly-christened detectives had anticipated.  Lastly it was Mycroft’s loud yell at Greg who launched himself towards the escaping felon and tackled him as neatly as he would one of his mates on a football pitch.  However, his mates generally didn’t launch an attack in the aftermath that had him both warding off and landing real punches that would end in something broken soon if one of them didn’t throw a knock-out blow to bring the violence to an end.

When Greg saw the flash of a knife blade in his opponent’s hand, he knew that person had to be him and prepared for his nastiest shot to the berk’s head before said berk’s head wasn’t there anymore.

      “Gregory!  Did I… get him?”

Mycroft Holmes, in the side yard, with the handle of a spade.  Not the normal combination you expected in Cluedo, but it had served to bring their adversary to the ground with what would surely be a painful lump to add to his misery.

      “You did, Mycroft.  You certainly did.  Brilliantly, at that.  John?”

      “Father and Sherlock are with him.  He appears to have suffered some damage to his shoulder, but not so much as he is not able to protest being taken to hospital for a second opinion.’

      ‘Good.  I’m glad he’s not… you know.”

      “Yes, I do, but you were in far greater danger for that, I fear.  Gregory… that was most reckless.”

      “I… yeah, I suppose it was.  Wasn’t really something I planned, though, it just sort of happened.”

      “You are naturally and instinctively valorous.  I could not be prouder.”

As the aches and pains started to make themselves known, Greg found he couldn’t care less because the most important thing in his world now was the look he saw on Mycroft’s face.  Which lasted through a third party interrupting their moment of post-battle bliss.

      “Good.  The criminal has been fully subdued.  Sherlock is phoning the police to report to our present location, so they may take the suspect into custody.”

Greg couldn’t hide his grin at Bertie’s crime-novel choice of words and suspected this was about as much evidence of excited giddiness as he was going to get from the Holmes patriarch.

      “They can stop for tea, because that one’s not going anywhere.  Mycroft power-whacked him.  Like a… I’ve played characters in films that weren’t that badass.”

Though my characters didn’t turn nearly that red from their successes being praised.

      “I am extremely surprised, though enormously proud of Mycroft’s decisive action.  His mother will likely weep with delight, so prepare for some incoherence on her part if you are engaged in conversation.  However, that does raise a point of discussion.  The police shall surely arrive coincident with any number of reporters, especially given…”

Bertie nodded his head towards the building at the heart of their troubles and both Greg and Mycroft noted the gathering of residents who were taking photos, videos and talking on their phones, all the while staring and grinning at the film star standing, bruised and a touch bloody next to what could possibly be a dead body.

      “Bloody wonderful.  Yeah, it’s going to be a circus.  Why don’t… can you drive, sir?”

      “No.”

      “Ok, so you and Mycroft escaping in Horse isn’t an option, but there’s probably a Tube station nearby and…”

      “Gregory, do not think for one moment that I am leaving your side!”

Greg smiled softly and imprinted every bit of these few moments into his mind.

      “Yes, you are.  The press will be here, photographers… you _will_ have to give a statement to the police, but maybe we can do that tomorrow or, at least, later tonight once the feeding frenzy has died down.”

      “I agree with Gregory, son.  You must satisfy your duty as a citizen, but there is no reason for you to remain here and endure the inanity of the press.  Your significant other is used to such things and can handily weather their bothersome nature.”

      “No.  No, I shall not leave.”

      “Mycroft… really, it’s ok.”

      “Absolutely not.  What if you are again beset by an agitated miscreant!  It is clear that you require my rational mind and steady hand to protect you from another villainous assault.”

The determined set of Mycroft’s jaw told both Bertie and Greg that the writer would not be moved on the subject.  And each had their own reasons to be incredibly proud of him for that determination.

      “Ok, love.  It’ll be you and me together.  Will you, at least, let me handle most of the contact with the press?  They’ll irritate you to the hair-pulling stage and it’s only fair I endure the hair-pulling irritation since you kept that knife-wielding savage from ending my career a bit abruptly.”

      “Yes, that certainly is fair.  That reminds me… I did wish to inspect the knife the criminal intended to use.  I have written several scenes involving stabbing, but I always envisioned the weapon to be a somewhat comely example of the breed.  That specimen appears most… unappealing.  I should, perhaps, make a study of the type of knife used in a crime and the characteristics of the knife’s wielder.  It could yield most interesting data.”

While Mycroft bent over to examine the knife, helped by his dad, Greg looked over to Sherlock and John, who was standing and seemingly intact, then returned his attention to the man who had picked up a dirty spade, rendered another person unconscious with it, and was ready to stand between him and another unhinged murderer if the situation arose.  Once the adrenaline wore off, Mycroft’s brain might begin to look at tonight slightly differently, but that was ok.  His Mycroft absolutely could rise to the occasion when needed and if he needed a bit of comforting in the aftermath, that was perfectly understandable.  And absolutely a job that desperately-in-need-of-a-drink-or-painkiller Greg Lestrade was honored to perform…


	38. Chapter 38

Every flash from a camera was making Mycroft flinch and Greg wished he could wave away the media frenzy to give his dear writer some ease.  At least, for now, they were tied up with the police and that was keeping the press some distance away, but that would break soon, and it would be the typical chaos he experienced every time he made an appearance.  No, in truth, it would be worse because the word had gotten out about why he and the rest were here and that was escalating the interest to the point where the fans and media were practically slavering for the chance to talk to him.  _And_ the most reclusive writer in England.

      “This is on you, Sherlock.  I’ve told you dozens of times not to dart off and…”

      “This is, in no manner, my fault, Dimmock.  How was I to predict that your murderer would be sufficiently stupid to try and flee when we, obviously, had him apprehended?”

      “Obviously!  He knew about you and John, period!  And John had already done a swan dive out the window!  Look at this!  Do you have any idea the amount of paperwork I’m in for now?  How many hours of being yelled at by my superiors for entangling two of this country’s richest and most recognizable people in my investigation!”

      “ _Mummy_ doesn’t even recognize Mycroft unless he says something suitably pompous or is shoving a cake into his mouth!”

      “Sherlock, that is uncharitable, both to your mother and your brother.  Apologize.”

      “No, Father, I shall not because, first, Mummy is not here to have heard anything and, second, I shall remind you of Mycroft’s fourteenth birthday as proof that an entire cake can fit into that large, boring hole in his face.”

Dimmock was nearly giddy that there was someone else besides him who had to deal with Sherlock’s nonsense and that this new participant in the endurance contest had the upper hand, if the aghast look on Sherlock’s face once his father’s mobile was ceremoniously pulled out was credible evidence.  Given Sherlock actually tried to hide behind his just-maligned brother, the evidence was highly credible, indeed.

      “Dorothy, your youngest son is being exceedingly rude and problematic.”

Sherlock reacted to the mobile being shoved at him the way a vampire would a crucifix and it was a small spark of inspiration that Greg nodded to Mycroft to take the call himself, since it might distract him for a few minutes from the raging wildfire of media coverage.

      “Mummy?”

      “Mycroft!  You’re not your brother.”

      “Something for which I am exceedingly thankful on a daily basis.”

      “Hold on a tick… there you are!”

      “You… you are here?”

      “No, but you’re here.  Wave for me, dear.”

      “What?  Why?”

      “You’re on the telly!  I was watching before my phone rang.  I wasn’t going to answer, but I saw it was your dad… he’s so handsome standing there looking serious and crime-fightery.  I admit was so scared for him, but he looks the best out of the lot of you, so I suppose I was overreacting a touch.  Tell him to wave at me, too.”

      “No.”

      “Then you do it for both of you.”

      “I… I am not waving.”

      “Why not?  How often do I get to see you on the telly?  Never.  Especially after having caught an evil murderer.  Tell Sherlock to wave, too.  I’ve seen him on the telly before, but never when I could tell his silly self to wave at his old mum so he knows I’m proud of him.”

      “How… how is Sherlock waving at… never mind.”

      “Greg, too!  And, John.  He doesn’t look in the mood for it, though, poor thing.”

      “John was hurled from a window so, no, I suspect that he is not in the proper frame of mind for waving.”

      “WHAT!  Give him the phone, I have to talk to him.”

Happy to pass the obligation to John, who reached for the mobile with as much suspicion as someone being told to reach into a bag and guess what it contained, having already smelled something very much not to their liking.  That left Mycroft without a distraction, though, and Greg could already see the anxiety ramping back up.

      “You alright, love?”

      “No.”

Greg had never in his life felt so useless and couldn’t see an easy way to give Mycroft some peace, besides having a constable haul him home, something which would send the writer into a deeper pit of distress.

      “I… I won’t forget how brave you are to do this, Mycroft.  Stay here and keep an eye on me, I mean.  It means a lot and… I feel a great deal better because of it.”

The upset was still feverishly glowing in Mycroft’s eyes, but something else rose up, too, from Greg’s words that had the actor getting a bit of his own wind back.

      “I do think we’re about finished here, though, so maybe…”

      “Do not suggest I leave.”

Ok, scrapping that plan.

      “I… I wasn’t going to suggest that.  What I was going to suggest is… just getting the rest over and done with now.”

      “The rest?”

Greg nodded over towards the impromptu police line that had been set up, not because there was a grisly crime scene to protect, but because there were two people on site that would cost Dimmock his job if they were trampled by a mingled horde of eager fans and scoop-hungry reporters.

      “I do not understand.”

      “We’ve given our statements, so there’s nothing more to do here, I suspect, but give the reporters and onlookers something so we have a chance of leaving here in peace.  Anderson’s got a car on the way for us with another person riding along to drive Horse back to his stable later on so… so it’s not directly associated with us and gets chased whenever I have it out for spin.”

      “I… I had not thought of that.”

      “And I’m glad for it, because it means you haven’t had to live with the nonsense of my life.  In fact, why don’t you stay here and keep your dad company while I go and…”

      “No.”

Very much the answer Greg was expecting, but he was not going to give Mycroft a hint that he was being treated like a child or, on the other hand, having his suffering ignored.

      “Ok.  I had to ask.  I hate the idea of seeing you upset, but I’ll do my very best to have this done with quickly so we can make a fast getaway.  Ready?”

      “No.”

      “Then we’ll…”

Go, apparently, now that you’re marching towards the throng like you intended to slaughter every one of them with a sword.  Which would be amazing to see, but bloody, which certainly wouldn’t suit your temperament, so wading into forestall the bloodbath.

_ Greg! _

_ Oh my god, he’s walking this way! _

_ He’s gorgeous! _

_ A statement for the viewers at home, Greg? _

_ Look this way, Greg! _

Greg caught up to Mycroft quickly, since the wall of shrieks and shouts was its own force of nature that the writer was having a difficult time pushing his way through.

      “Gregory…”

      “It’s alright, Mycroft.  This is normal, nothing out of the ordinary or unexpected.”

      “It is… appalling.”

      “It’s hard to take some days, I’ll admit that.  I have to smile, chat, wave, sign things, pose for photos and my head’s pounding from a long meeting or I’m feeling sick from lunch or a cold is coming on and I’m so drained that I can hardly stand or, frankly, I’m in a blah or shit mood and don’t want to deal with anyone at the moment.  But, I _am_ used to it, know how to deal with it and how to push it along if I have to so we’re not here all night.”

Sensing a bit more would be necessary to help his courageous Mycroft weather the storm, Greg decided on a rather mild bout of drastic measures.

      “Feel like doing a bit of acting?”

      “I… no.”

      “It’s easy.  All you have to do is pretend you’re listening to Sherlock spout nonsense.  Affect that perfect quiet, long-suffering air at whatever I say.”

      “Wh… why?”

      “It’ll help lessen the time we’ll have the wolves at our throats.”

And keep attention focused on me since you’re not giving the journos any meat, but I’ll be tossing whole cows their way.

      “Oh.”

      “Is that a yes oh or a no oh?”

      “I… I do not know.”

      “Then I’ll assume it’s a yes oh until such time as I am proven wrong.  Come on.”

Greg made a grand show, turned slightly to the crowd, of his tongue sticking out and he linked their pinkies before skipping over to the crowd, much to the approval of his fans and the mortification of Mycroft.  Quickly surveying the field of reporters, Greg’s practiced eye found what was surely the new person, likely the only one on hand when the call came down to get a reporter and camera to the scene to find out what Greg Lestrade was doing tackling someone in a fairly nondescript part of London.  Waving the young man over, Greg put on his most approachable smile and chuckled at how the rest of the press crowded around his chosen oracle to get the crumbs secondhand.

      “I don’t think I’ve seen you before.  New on the scene?”

      “I… yes.  Six months… seven!... seven months on the job.  I usually cover the local events…”

      “Charity sales and the new flower shop opening where the pet groomer used to be?”

      “Yeah, mostly.”

      “Perfect!  Everyone has to start somewhere and you’ve started in a great place!  Most of this lot started in the mailroom except… yeah, I see you over there, Joyce!  She started writing a cooking column, then got demoted to covering the likes of rogues and rascals like me.  Mr. Holmes here, however, is used to the tweed-wearing, pipe-smoking type you see doing the literary magazines and long musings about culture in the Sunday pages, so none of your normal silliness or he’ll have a go at you with the very same spade he took out that murderous chap with and I’ll applaud.”

Mycroft initial shock at being spoken about was quickly quelled from noticing that the reporters’ attention was focused more on making collegial rude gestures at Greg than trying to get more information from _him_.

      “Would… can we have your version of tonight’s events, sir?”

Perfect.  The new ones are either very polite or wholly obnoxious, one which would put Mycroft a touch more at ease and one which would anger him immeasurably.  Either way, his mind would be occupied with something other than the all the cameras and continued shouts for attention from the fans in the crowd.

      “Absolutely!  Mycroft’s brother, Sherlock, is an actual consulting detective, molded from Mycroft’s legendary creation, Diogenes Bell, and he’s been working with our fine men and women of the police service on a case involving the bloke we had an altercation with earlier.  See that tall fellow?  Mycroft’s dad, along to watch his baby boy do his work and act as a bit of muscle, in addition to Sherlock’s normal partner, John, who’s a proud veteran of the Army.  Wounded in action!  Mycroft’s dad’s a librarian, so don’t let that lanky figure fool you.  You all know how a librarian can keep the peace, no matter how much misbehavior is going on.”

Mycroft’s confusion over Greg’s speech at least paused it’s dithering to notice that the reporters all briefly sported a look that said they remembered very well the ferociousness of their school or local librarian and his Gregory’s nonsense actually was making some degree of point.

      “Anyway, Mycroft kindly allowed me a bit of access to his talented self, so I could learn more about the character and, when we learned what was going on tonight, we came out here to see what all the fuss was about.  And fuss it was!  That evil ne’er-do-well tossed John out of a window, luckily onto a soft patch of Earth or John would be wearing more than a wrenched shoulder and a shower of bruises, and made a dash for it, Sherlock hot on his heels, but I happened to stumble into the brute and that made him mad, so he tried to start something and WHAM!  Mr. Mycroft Holmes, mystery writer extraordinaire, whacked him over the head with a spade to put an end to his silly nonsense.  Now, of course, our hero keeps trying to slither away for a pint, but I told him absolutely not until you lot get all the snaps you want of him and the rest of the Scooby gang over there.”

Showing their linked pinkies as if they were a set of handcuffs keeping Mycroft from running away, Greg grinned at the laughter and Mycroft found his confusion warring with the nonstop voices screaming in his head, all of which was making him feel as if he was disconnecting from reality with his ghost utterly at a loss concerning which way to float to find a simple, quiet place to rejoin the living world.  However, he was also highly aware that it would be much worse if he wasn’t being grounded solidly by the man giving his little finger tiny squeezes of support.

      “And… you two are working together, at least, so far as to help put Diogenes Bell on screen?”

      “That we are!  Mycroft’s books are phenomenal works of literature and I’m not about to muck it all up and disgrace both his books and myself in the process.  He’s working with me so I have a better understanding of the character, his personality and motivations.  It’s a massive amount of help and I’m thankful for every bit of it.  Besides, how often does someone like me get to hobnob with a cultured intellectual like him?  Or, participate in a real criminal investigation?  I hope to do a bit more observing cases with Sherlock and John over there, but no more murderers, I think.  Can’t trust they won’t mistake me for another victim and what a loss that would be to the film world.  Or, maybe it’d be the blessing the filmgoing audience has been waiting for!  Anyway, it’s time for us to thank that filmgoing audience for coming out to cheer us on, so why don’t you all see if you can sneak a word with Sherlock, John and Mycroft’s dad?  DI Dimmock is in charge and I’m certain he’ll be happy to nudge them this way for a chat.”

Greg set in motion his ‘clap on the arm, big grin, wave to the rest and stride off confidently’ maneuver to distance them from the press who were now turned, for the moment, in another direction and took a deep breath as he steered him and Mycroft towards the excited crowd who were growing louder as they realized their favorite film star was within seconds of stopping by to say hello.

      “Just hold on a little longer, love.  The police will keep the peace, so all we… I… have to do is spend a short bit of time making people feel appreciated.”

      “They… they are so loud.”

      “Yes, they are.   And it can be louder, sometimes, but it’s not an enormous group here and looks mostly like locals and friends or relatives of locals, so more here as a lark than desperate for an autograph or a lock of my hair.”

      “Oh dear…”

      “There won’t be any touching, don’t worry, at least not of you, I’ll make certain of that.  But, I can’t even begin to tell you how amazing you are right now.  I generally have to make do on my own, with Anderson acting a bit like a gatekeeper, but this is far better.  Knowing I have you here makes a world of difference.”

Mycroft genuinely didn’t know if Greg was being honest or trying to make _him_ feel better about things, but he appreciated the words, nonetheless.

      “So… just look like you’re indulging my looniness and have better things to do with your time and I’ll hustle us through like I did with the media.  A little less quickly, I confess, but, especially now, I can’t afford to alienate people and leave them with a foul taste about me or your film.  Remember, just pretend I’m your brother being a loon and you’re doing your very best to tolerate me long enough to see me choke to death on my stupid words.”

That, at least, was something Mycroft understood and he did his utmost to affect the appropriate air while Greg chatted, posed for photos, signed things, said hello on the phone to someone’s mother and all the other examples of chaos that humanity sought to visit upon his actor.  It was intolerable!  The noise, the people, the reaching, the touching, demanding attention … it never stopped!  The misery never stopped, not even for a moment… and it was too much for any sane person to bear…

It was only because he needed to look away from all the people reaching for them that Mycroft noticed the young, rough-looking couple standing a bit off to the side staring not at Greg, but at him.  And, once he saw them that seemed to be the signal for them to push through the crowd, much more politely than their clothes and tattoos would lead Mycroft expect, though he felt every nerve fiber he possessed shrieking in the shrillest possible voice.

      “You’re, ummm… you’re Mycroft Holmes, the writer, aren’t you?”

Given that, at the moment, _breathing_ was difficult for Mycroft, he was immensely proud of himself for nodding in response to the question.

      “Wow… ok, we… we love your books.  Have all of them, actually.  Just cheap copies, but Julia here she picked up one someone had left at the clinic and… I didn’t read much, but she had me read that one and… we both read a lot now. Not as boring or pointless as I’d supposed and… we wanted to say thanks when we heard you were out here.  We live a few streets away.  Yeah, that’s really it.   Ummm… unless, you’d be willing to sign this for us?”

The young man drew a copy of _The Devil’s in the Details_ out of his jacket pocket, along with a well-used biro, and presented them to Mycroft who looked at the objects much like he would an aggressive rat but the universe, apparently, had decided he deserved one small grace tonight.  That it came in the form of Anderson proved the universe also had a sense of humor.

      “There you are, Mr. Holmes.  Oh, an autograph is it?  Here, I’ve got a great signing pen on me and… one moment… I’ll hold the book steady, so you can write more easily.”

Pulling the ‘special occasion’ Waterman out of his pocket, after a small rubbing using his pocket lining so it was clean and mostly free of fingerprints, Anderson handed the pen to Mycroft, who slowly accepted it, then opened the book to the title page and held it so Mycroft didn’t have to touch the paper to write.  Which, after a long moment, Mycroft did, much to his admirer’s delight.

      “Thank you, sir.  Really, this is… this is amazing is what this is.  We really appreciate it.”

As the couple began to merge back with the crowd, Mycroft stared intently at them and tried to piece together the thousand fragments of thoughts and emotions that were blaring like klaxons in his brain, something that Anderson’s agent senses could detect, even without his professional counterpart’s years of experience with her client and realized the situation called for some intervening measures.  And, the person best suited to do it was currently signing what looked like the back of a Starbucks receipt.

Giving Mycroft a ‘wait one moment’ gesture, Anderson leaned over to whisper in Greg’s ear, happy that his client was well-practiced in keeping up with the signing and smiling while they had their private chats.

      “Car’s here, you’re cleared to go by the police, I’ve got a second car on the way to collect Sherlock John and Mycroft’s dad, John refuses to go to hospital, but the ambulance personnel looked him over and said he’d be alright with rest, Mycroft’s on the verge of breaking down so you need to leave now.  I’ll tidy things up here and let you know if there’s anything more the police decide they need from you.”

Greg kept smiling, waving and signing, but gave Anderson the sort of nod that said the message had been received.

      “Alright everyone, practice your best smile and tall people to the back!  This is going to be one for everyone!”

Greg looked around, found a suitably-tall constable, waved him over and had a quick whispered conversation where the promise of a signed photo for a certain girlfriend might have come into play, all of which led to Anderson sighing, but taking out his mobile, setting the camera appropriately, clambering onto the constable’s shoulders and waiting for Greg to corral his fans for several whole-group pics.

      “Thanks, everyone!  My agent will put those up on my website and it’ll be password protected, so it’s a private thing for all you amazing people who came out tonight!  The password will be… devildetailsfilm… all one word, lower case.  Thanks again, you’re all wonderful and I appreciate every bit of your support and enthusiasm!”

Linking his pinkie with Mycroft’s, Greg smiled gently, and kept smiling, until Mycroft realized what was going on and followed along towards the waiting car, after Greg gave a quick nod of thanks to Anderson who would take care of things here.

      “There’s our cozy ride!  Knowing Anderson, there’ll be alcohol available, what he’s deigned not to drink and leave for us, that is, so I’ll pour one for us and we can sip that on the drive.  How does that sound?”

The fact Mycroft didn’t answer and seemed to be unaware of what was happening at all worried the actor, but it wasn’t entirely surprising, if he was honest.  His Mycroft could only take so much and tonight had thrown at him far, far more than what most people could manage, let alone someone for whom even the presence of noise and disruption, or people, was its own challenge.

It took a bit of urging to get Mycroft into the rear of the car, but his legs finally obeyed, and Greg was quick to tell the driver to start driving, though when he gave the address of Mycroft’s house, the soft ‘no’ he heard from the writer changed that to ‘drive about a bit instead, will you, while we take a few moments to relax.’

      “Not ready to end the night yet, Mycroft?  I can see that, what with all the excitement and adventure.  I can’t promise that the next time we take Horse out for a spin we won’t encounter another murderer or space aliens or something just as ridiculous, but I’ll do my best to keep that from happening.”

Again, it wasn’t surprising that Mycroft didn’t respond to his nonsense, but Greg had hoped for something to indicate his Mycroft wasn’t in as much distress as the actor painfully believed him to be.  Time to just strip back to the most important things.

      “Ok… enough of my silliness.  What do you need right now, Mycroft?  What can I do for you?  Just tell me and I’ll make it happen.”

Now it was Mycroft’s turn to make a little ‘wait’ gesture and Greg realized that what Mycroft needed right now was _not_ his big mouth blabbering, even if it was trying to help.  However, there was someone who might have some insights and that person also needed to know her son wasn’t immediately on his way home, if that information had gotten to her from the telly or a phone call from another member of their crimefighting team.

Pouring Mycroft what smelled like a very acceptable whisky, Greg set the glass in the holder and tapped Dolly’s name in his contact list.

      “There’s my hero!  One of them, at least.  I’m all aflutter!  Anthea, the dear thing, had to tie a rope around my ankle so I didn’t simply fly away from all the fluttering!”

      “Anthea’s there?”

      “That she is.  She’d started for home not long before your faces were splashed over the news and came directly back once she got a call from that nice agent of yours.  They decided he’d go out and deal with all the falderol, which was mostly because of you and that gorgeous face of yours, and she’d come here to help… well, she thought that Mycroft might need a bit of his own managing once he came home and not only on the publicity front.”

      “Yeah, about that…”

      “Ooh, that’s a tone if I ever heard one.”

      “That it is.  We’re… we’re not moving in your direction at the moment.  More… _enjoying_ a moment away from the hustle and bustle.”

Greg hoped his second use of tone for the word ‘enjoying’ was enough of a clue that he wouldn’t have to explain further and embarrass his Mycroft.  If his Mycroft was even aware he was talking, that is.

      “Oh.  Be honest with me, Greg… how bad is he?  Is it a shutdown or a meltdown?”

      “We’re enjoying the _quiet_ a great deal.”

      “Got it.  A shutdown.  Ok, here’s what you do.  First, _don’t_ stress about you not doing enough to make it better because there’s not much you _can_ do but be there.  Strangely, he comes around faster if there’s a person nearby he trusts than if he’s actually all alone, so just being there is enough.  Second, if you can, keep him away from any hullabaloo.  Quiet, dim lights, plain things around him… it helps.  You don’t need to sit right there with him, in fact it’s better if you don’t.  When he was younger, me or his dad would take Sherlock outside or to the shops and the other would just go about their business, reading the paper or doing the dishes while he was in his room or his dad’s study, with the door open so we could see him and he could see us… always being near so he knew we were there, but not making him feel… I don’t know if pressured is the right word, but that’s how I saw it.  Let him do what he had to do, in his own time, in his own way, until he gave us a little sign he was coming back to us.  He _will_ be alright, Greg… he just needs some time to flush whatever’s got him clogged up out of his brain.  You taking him to yours or bringing him here?”

      “Uh… that’s a very good question.”

      “My advice is take him to your house.  I talked to Bertie and they’re all coming here for a bit of a cooling off, and it’ll be better for Mycroft if he’s not in the middle of all that.  Sherlock’s going to be a handful as it is, since he won’t show anyone how worried he is about John, but he _is_ worried and that’ll make him testy and snappy.  I’ll manage that son and you take care of my other one, alright?”

      “I will.”

      “Such a good boy you are.  Phone me or Bertie if you need anything.”

      “I’ll do that.  Thanks, Dolly.”

      “You’re welcome, son-in-law.”

Greg grinned at the small giggle that ended their conversation and thanked the stars, yet again, that his Mycroft had a family that took him in stride and always saw him safe and loved, no matter what.

      “Your mums says your dad, Sherlock and John are going to your house when they’re done with the police.  How about you and I stop at my place first to put a bit of wind back in our sails before leaping back into that fray?”

Greg waited patiently and was finally rewarded a tiny tilt of Mycroft’s head that he interpreted as an agreeing nod.  Giving the driver his address, Greg finally poured himself his own drink, leaving Mycroft’s untouched one alone in case the writer made a move for it, and settled back in his seat.

What a ludicrous night!  And he was somewhat of a professional in judging ludicrousness, given his decades in the film industry.  He had full confidence Anderson was on top of the media situation and was, it seemed, already coordinating with Anthea so Mycroft’s end of things was covered, too.  Tomorrow would be nearly as wild as today, perhaps wilder, as the story circulated to a wider body of media outlets and the rumors and fabrications began to grow and spread.  Nothing, at all, out of the ordinary and something he was fully used to, but Mycroft wasn’t, and it would be _his_ duty to minimize the impact.

Maybe Anderson could buy him another day or two in London.  This sort of thing could be leveraged, from a studio standpoint, into unbelievable quantities of free publicity and not the sort that needed a public relations fixer to go out and spin to minimize the negative impact.  This was what the dreamed about; something big and splashy and positive and Mycroft’s own publisher would probably want a chunk of that, too.  Yeah, bargaining a little extra time in London would probably be easy if he volunteered to do a few interviews, talk up the film and his character… they’d do it and probably wouldn’t bother to even fake the obligatory resistance to the idea.

Which was good, because whether they approved or not, he needed to be here for his Mycroft.  He’d never had to worry about another person like this before, but it was something he took seriously and would _not_ walk away until he knew that the media cycle had found something new to chase and the spotlight shifted.  It always did, you could be certain of that, and it was on him to make sure that Mycroft was still intact when that shifting occurred…


	39. Chapter 39

When they arrived at his door, Greg tapped the driver’s shoulder and gave him a sign to stay put while Greg got out and moved around the car to open Mycroft’s side and gently coax the writer out of the vehicle.  Something that went exactly as slowly and incrementally as he’d expected.  Once he had Mycroft standing on the pavement, he gave the boot lid a few slaps and waved at the driver, who left feeling somewhat giddy that his favorite actor _and_ his favorite writer had been in his car.  _Much_ better than a load of coked-up studio executives and their hangers-on, though the amount of unconsumed alcohol and nibbles they left behind were happy additions to his own larder and more than due payment for having to carry half of them to their doorstep, without a coherent word of thanks, after a particularly eventful night.

For his part, Greg risked linking their pinkies again and, seeing no obvious change in his Mycroft’s demeanor, used that connection to draw Mycroft forward towards his door, then into the house where he now had the problem of deciding where to go next.  Quiet, dark, simple… that actually described _most_ of his house right now, barring a few particularly-ridiculous spaces.  Oh, problem solved.  Mycroft was walking…

… towards his master bath, apparently.  And unlinking their fingers so he could sit in the middle of the enormous sunken tub, rather like a bird in a nest.  Ok… the room wasn’t getting any direct moonlight streaming in, the temperature was neither too warm or too cool, you couldn’t see any reflections from the mirror in that spot and he was a firm believer in, despite his tub, a fairly basic bath with none of that Versailles-esque decoration that some people seemed to find necessary when you were a celebrity.  Moreover, his fixtures were all matte-finish, so they weren’t very shiny to catch what little moonlight was making it into the room.   Could be worse… and, he could easily do the ‘keep the door open and go about your business’ routine by toeing off his shoes, turning on the small lamp next to his bed and settling in said bed to read a bit so he could be here for… whatever.

      “Think I’ll do a spot of reading for awhile.”

Greg got the lack of answer he expected and went about getting himself settled in bed, propped with pillows, after he checked that the light from the lamp wasn’t doing more than giving him enough illumination to read and not reaching into the bath.  Yes, he still felt useless… yes, he still felt like he was letting Mycroft down somehow… but if this was all he could do then he’d do the best he could at it.  Given the ‘it’ was being a layabout reading a book, his best was, unquestionably, professional quality…

__________

When Greg slept, he slept like the dead, but one thing he’d learned in his life was that his subconscious was extremely talented at monitoring the situation, so that his mum yelling at him to wake up for school was handily ignored, but reaching the time for the start of the Saturday morning telly programs would have his eyes opening of their own volition so he didn’t miss a single second.  Because of this, he was actually fairly certain that the soft, halting ‘Gregory’ that had him awake and moving towards the bath was the first time it had actually been uttered.

      “Yeah?  Right here.”

      “Do you have Fanta?”

That was not expected.

      “I… maybe.”

      “Orange?”

      “I’ll check and… do you want one?”

      “Yes.”

      “Then I’ll make that check now.  Just… one moment.”

Greg walked quietly to the bedroom door, then ran to his kitchen where he hoped, in the various things the grocery delivery provided, not only for his own consumption, but for the unexpected guests he might have to host for this reason or that, was a can of orange Fanta.  That he found two, as well as an assortment of other fizzy drinks in the ‘oh look, I’m entertaining’ bin of his refrigerator earned his grocery provider a gratuity boost the next time they visited.

Taking a moment to do a little preparation, Greg was happy that even with the additional moment, he was back to Mycroft in under three minutes.

      “Orange Fanta for you, sir.  Glass?”

      “Yes.”

      “Ice?”

      “No.”

      “Alright then, let me pour this…”

      “With the barest minimum of fizz.”

      “… with the barest minimum of fizz.  Just a second…”

Pouring a stupid can of Fanta into a glass shouldn’t be able to induce a nervous breakdown, but Greg was finding himself teetering on the brink of one every time the fizz level crested to any discernible level of foam.

      “Here you go.  I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to stay or…”

      “Yes.”

      “Ok, then I’m glad I brought one for myself, so you don’t have to drink alone.”

Greg cracked the second can and quickly changed gear from taking a drink directly _from_ the can, seeing Mycroft’s horrified expression, to pouring it into the other glass he’d brought out, not for his use, but in case Mycroft was put off by the shape, size or whatnot of the first glass he was offered.

      “Ahh… haven’t had one of these in a long time.  Refreshing.  I checked in with your mum and everyone’s done with the police and safely back at home.  Sherlock and John are staying at your house because you mum doesn’t trust either of them to keep an eye on John’s condition, despite John have a medical degree and Sherlock being the precisely sort that would notice if John’s arm fell off at some point and make a rather noisy issue of it.”

Greg waited a moment and, when Mycroft had no comment to make, decided to keep on because sitting there in silence was something that would actually make _him_ feel uncomfortable.

      “Your dad’s happy though.  Good thing he uploaded that video you took… your mum’s watched it twenty times and I could hear your dad’s smugness through the phone as she made a fuss over that and the everything else tonight.  I have zero doubt their local is going to be buying him drinks from now until Doomsday and your mother won’t have it any other way if they know what’s good for them.”

      “Gr… Gregory…”

      “Yeah?”

      “Did I… embarrass you?”

It was mind-boggling how his heart could shatter so completely and not make a sound, but life was filled with the inexplicable, apparently.

      “No.  Not at all.  You did exactly what anyone else would do in that situation.  I took a quick look through the news and there was a _lot_ of coverage about tonight, but not a single negative thing about you in the whole lot.  I’m very proud of what we did tonight and how we handled it.  Me and you both.”

Greg worked on sewing together his bits of heart muscle during the long silence that followed, only to have the seams torn out with Mycroft’s next statement.

      “Did I disappoint you… afterwards?”

      “No, you didn’t.  This is part of who you are, Mycroft, and there’s nothing there to disappoint me.  Look at it from the bare bones – we had a quiet ride here, then you had a sit and I had a read plus, I admit, a bit of a nap.  Tell me, in all of that, what might disappoint me?”

      “I… I worry…”

      “Go ahead.”

      “Weakness.  I fear you s… see me as weak.  Strange, broken and weak.”

There was nothing left of his heart now, so Greg tightly crossed his fingers that black magic might stop by and keep his zombie body going long enough to care for this dear, wonderful man.

      “Nothing could be farther from the truth.  Nothing.  You are a brilliant, successful, caring man who very bravely stayed with me tonight even though it was enormously hard for you do it.  And you took out a murderer with a spade!  A filthy spade that you picked off the ground to let that bastard have it good and proper.  Weak?  No, love… you stepped up with all the courage I could ever hope to see and if you needed a little time after to… catch your mental breath… what does that matter?  You’re not strange, you’re not broken and you’re certainly not weak.”

The look in his Mycroft’s eyes was the only thing Greg needed to know for certain that his words hit home, but Mycroft reaching out to softly caress his hand a few times was a nice bit of reassurance.  Of course, it also served a dual purpose…

      “The spade was _unutterably_ filthy… my hands…”

      “On it!  The finest soap and towels for you, sir.”

      “I…”

      “I’m listening.”

      “ _Everything_ feels unbearably soiled.”

Which meant more than a bit of soap and hand washing in the basin was going to be necessary.  That was a bit more than Greg had planned for but, given he really _hadn’t_ done any planning and that previous thought was bollocks, onward and upward with improvisation.

      “It _has_ been that sort of night, hasn’t it?  I see two options.  First, we see you home and…”

      “No.”

      “Ok… then option two is… I have both underpants and socks that I haven’t worn at all, unpackaged and laundered, and clothes that I _have_ worn, but have been treated with the most professional attention by the laundry service Anderson contracts and are absolutely clean, waiting to be worn.  I can have Anderson buy something new and bring it here, but I don’t know if you’d want that without it being laundered first…”

Greg kept his hand still as Mycroft continued the dual-purpose caressing his hand/using it as an impromptu filth-removing flannel while considering his options.

      “You are _certain_ your garments are thoroughly laundered?”

      “When I’ve been away for more than a week or so, Anderson has the service come in, take everything I own and wash it, because it could have been sitting in my closet or drawer for a quite awhile and not look their best.  They give him a list of what’s in poor shape and needs replacing and he has new sent to them for laundering before adding them to my wardrobe.  That’s mostly the socks, pants, linens sort of thing but it ensures I always come back from an extended shoot or publicity tour to fresh clean clothes and bath towels.  Want me to find something for you while you have a shower or bath?”

      “I must inspect your soap.”

That sounded like a potential, though conditional, yes.  At least, it was more of a yes than no, so moving forward…

      “You inspect everything you’d like while I get the clothes bit done.  Actually, there’s probably unopened samples of soap, shampoo and whatever else a body might have for the bath in my guest rooms.  The cleaning service checks and replaces anything opened with something new.  I can gather what’s in there for you to examine, if that’s helpful.”

      “It is.  It _very_ much is.”

      “Then let the gathering begin!  I’ll pull everything together, you can choose what works, and take as long as you’d like getting refreshed.  I’ll even pop into one of the guest rooms and have a quick shower myself.  I’ve been inspired by your very correct observation that the evening was a touch soily.”

      “You do seem somewhat…”

      “Grubby?”

      “A shower would be to your benefit.”

      “Then I’ll get the people-cleaning supplies, let you choose yours and I’ll use what’s left to make me shinier than Horse.”

      “I have to confess that your vehicle is far more acceptable than I had predicted.”

      “I’ll pass that along.  He’ll appreciate it.”

__________

After Mycroft’s decade-long choosing of personal-care products, Greg took a quick shower, threw on something comfortable and, from the fact that Mycroft had requested the scent-free candles be lit in the bath, used what he suspected would be a lengthy wait to make a few calls.  First being to quell what was likely a high level of maternal concern about her absent chick.

      “I was just thinking about you, you gorgeous thing!  We’re watching a film and I mentioned not a minute ago how much better it would be if you were in it.  Didn’t I say that, Bertie?  Oh, don’t shush me, you’ve seen this one before.”

      “Hello, Dolly.  Just wanted to phone and say Mycroft’s… better.”

      “Back in the land of the living, is he.  Good… any problems?”

      “No, not a one.  I did what you said, and it worked perfectly.  Took him some time, but he came around and asked for a Fanta.”

      “Did he?  Oh, that’s…it makes me want to cry, it does.  Did the same when he was young.  Let me guess… orange.”

      “Exactamundo!”

      “He won’t touch the stuff at any other time, but when he’s upset… it started when he’d had a particularly bad meltdown and was so dehydrated and shaky that I poured two of those, which I always kept because _I_ fancy the taste, into a large glass and he drank them down like one of those blokes who takes wagers at the pub on how fast he can finish a pint.  Ever since that’s what he’s wanted… I think it’s become a little ritual for him and who am I to try and change what works!”

      “Well, it certainly did the trick here and I’ll remember to have them on hand in case I need them.”

      “Did you get the chance to chat?”

      “Yeah, a good one, too.  Until he remembered how grimy he was from his heroics and we got him sorted for a long session in my bath.”

      “Ooh, that must have been fun.  How long did it take for him to be settled with soaps and flannels and check for soap film and the like?”

      “About half an hour.  We had to negotiate on a few things, but he’s happily splashing in my tub and will rinse off in the shower and… hold on to your pearls… he’ll wear some of my clothes, so I don’t have to try and remember how to use my laundry appliances and clean his for him.”

      “I don’t even want to know how you accomplished that, but very, very well done you!  Is he coming home tonight?”

      “We haven’t talked about that.  He didn’t want to come home for his bath, but maybe after he’s had another hour or so to relax and soak the night out of his pores, he might go in that direction.”

      “Well, don’t push him either way.  We’ve got things managed on this end, so you just concentrate on you and yours.  Oh, and your agent wants you to phone him when you get a chance.  He said you’d probably phone me first and I was supposed to pass along the word if that happened, which it did!  Very smart man you have working for you.  I think he deserves a little extra in his wages for all this silliness.”

      “And, I’m certain he agrees with you.”

      “He does!  He’s even going to get Bertie an interview with one of those literary mags about the very important job of a librarian in today’s digital world and what it means to be a murderer-catcher.”

      “Can I get a signed copy when it comes out?”

      “Two!  One to read and one to frame.  I’ll make certain he signs that one especially floridly on the front, so everyone knows you’re special.”

It was good to be special.

      “Great!  Ok, let me phone Anderson and if Mycroft wants to go home, I’ll phone to give you a head’s up.”

      “Perfect.  Sherlock’s still in a bit of his own tizzy, so Bertie and me will be up all hours, I imagine.  Plus, I’m still not convinced John doesn’t have a shaken brain and I want to keep an eye he doesn’t take a bad turn or start acting loony.  Sherlock brings more than enough loony into my life, as it is!  Take care, Greg and… thank you.”

Greg smiled at his mobile before turning attention to his agent.

      “Since when did you start representing superhero librarians?  Isn’t that more Anthea’s line of work?”

      “Fuck you, too, Mr. Fabulous.  For your information, it became my line of work when Anthea and I had to join forces to manage the firestorm you lot created.  The studio and publishing house, apparently, have decided we’re a firm, not two individual agents for two individual clients, and are directing and redirecting calls, emails, texts, to both of us without any concern about which of us is actually, in reality, responsible for the person the business is about.  _Publisher’s Weekly_ , Greg… I just spent ten minutes chatting with those lovely people about how I think the fiction market is going to respond to these latest developments. Anthea had to explain half the words they used because they meant fuck all to me.”

      “None of that sounds… bad…”

      “If you’re snooping for bad press or negative fallout, you’re not going to find any.  Snarky, jealous, shit will show up in time, but it’ll be from the usual people in the usual places.”

      “Any blowback that could hurt Mycroft?”

      “Funny you asked.  The answer is no, it’s actually the opposite.  I don’t know what you and he talked about after he knocked that idiot, but the footage the outlets are airing make him look like this is just a normal day and not a particularly exciting one, at that.  The man is oozing a ‘bored with this’ air that is playing extremely well with the fact that he’s highly reclusive and doesn’t permit interviews.  I’m getting the picture that people thought he was a squirrely sort or one of those plodding chaps that puts people to sleep after speaking four words, but those winds are definitely shifting.”

      “That’s not good.  It means they’ll be hounding him to learn more.”

      “Not if we get ahead of it, which we are.  Anthea has scads of candid snaps from Mycroft’s writing experiments, like him firing a very large gun, which will diffuse some of the speculation that he’s British Secret Service or something.  Paint it as he’s not just a mousy man that sits behind a typewriter all day, but someone who is more active than people think and likes a bit of target shooting on his property.  It’s boring enough, but _explains_ enough, that the tabloids will have the rug pulled out from under them and the respectable journos won’t want to waste time pursuing a story about a bloke who shoots or climbs in his free time but simply values his privacy, so doesn’t do publicity.”

      “Wait… climbs?”

      “He mum made him go on holiday with them to Switzerland a few years ago and had him and his dad pose next to a bunch of climbing equipment, looking… adventurous.  AND Anthea has a photo of him actually in a climbing harness from a time when his driver was teaching him how to scale the exterior of a building because Mycroft wanted a realistic description for that book of his that featured a jewel thief.”

      “Ok… now, the shooting bit?”

      “Wanted to know what it was like to fire a gun, again for some realism in his writing, so they got one, a _big_ one, cleaned it up, showed him what to do and Anthea captured it for posterity.  What she _didn’t_ capture was him falling back on his arse from the recoil and bruising his coccyx, but every story omits this or that pesky detail.”

      “Ok… ok, so you fabricate a more vigorous life than actually exists to tick the boxes and give curious minds a bone or two to keep them happy.”

      “Basically.  We’ve got bits going here and there so parts of the story hit different places and different times and nestle into the narrative in a way that satisfies but doesn’t lead anywhere tantalizing or salacious.  It helps his brother is a detective, though, and we’re fanning that bit of memory back into the press.  Apparently, people tend to forget that they’re actually related, so it’s another ‘oh, well that makes sense’ detail that ramps down the urge to dig deeper.”

      “You really _are_ ahead of this.”

      “It’s our job.  Anthea is going to chat, too, with Dolly and Bertie to see if they’ll stay in London for a few more days, and keep Mycroft here, so it doesn’t look like he’s running away from the press, keeping on with the ‘Oh, did something interesting happen?’, schtick.  Just him going about his normal business, just not agreeing to interviews as he’s always done.”

      “That… that honestly sounds smart.”

      “I expect no more than the odd photographer trying for snap of him entering or leaving a car, maybe catch him out at a restaurant, but nothing exciting.  Is he still at your place?”

      “Yeah, for now.”

      “There _are_ , most likely, reporters lurking about outside, so flip your ‘oh shit it’s a nosy bugger’ switch and lower the shades.  I’ll stop in later with various fakery in my hands so it seems you and he are working.  I’ll do the same tomorrow when I collect you to bring him home or out to breakfast or whatnot.”

      “You say that as if you expect he’s staying overnight.”

      “I have twenty quid on it.  Anthea thinks he may still opt to go home since it’s familiar and calming, but I think you’ve become _just_ as familiar and calming and he’ll stay.  It’s fifty quid to me if you shag, but I’m honestly not anticipating lining my pockets quite to that degree. Yet.”

      “Funny.  But… thanks for having our backs on this.”

      “You’re very welcome.  And, for my grand finale…”

      “Tell me I’m staying in London for a bit longer.”

      “You are staying in London for a bit longer.  No matter what your commitments are now, the studio is not letting you leave until they’ve milked every bit of free press they can out of you.  The publishers have their fingers in your pie, too, and Anthea is happy you sell you to them to suit their needs.  You can’t buy this much high-quality good press, so prepare to be wrung out like a wet flannel, but you _will_ be doing your soggy dripping here in London.”

      ‘Yes!  Oh, that’s brilliant.  Just what I hoped to hear.”

      “And, if you take some of that time to squire your sweet, sweet boyfriend around the city, it’ll help to promote the line that you and Mycroft are working together on the upcoming film and your character, in particular.  Janine’s agent and publicist have already phoned and are going to push out a couple of stories that she’s doing the same.  Use the situation to draw a little extra attention her way.  I said I’d do what I could to help with that.”

      “I appreciate that.  She has very high hopes for this opportunity and any help I can give, albeit by proxy, I’m happy to provide.”

      “Already in the works.  Anthea and I are already coordinating some press statements with Janine’s people and planning to have you leave London the day before Mycroft and that last day he’s here, set up a little something with her so it seems she’s getting her own piece of personal access.  Have her over to his house, maybe, even if just to have a gossip session with Dolly and Anthea.  Add on Anthea, Janine and me going for lunch or drinks with set dressing so it looks like we’re working… I’ll make certain she’s not left out.  There’s lots of other things we’re working on, too, like getting Mycroft sign, say, five hardcover copies of _The Devil’s in the Details_ , maybe with a signed photo of your ugly face slipped in, as well.  Bookstores will happily put a big display in the window and behind the till, so you have to buy a copy, at a discounted price courtesy of the publisher, to see if you have one of Willy Wonka’s golden tickets.  Plans… we have them.  Many of them.”

      “Well, I suppose you have to stay busy what with having a single client to your name, you lazy arse.”

      “You’re a toddler, Greg.  Ever seen a dad with more than one toddler running about?  Ever seen anyone more exhausted, frazzled or ready for a drink?  Why put myself through that?  Except for the drinking part.  It probably won’t be until dawn, but I plan to toss several very large ones down my throat when we reach the eye of the hurricane.  Then a few million cups of coffee to wake myself up for when the second half of the beast hits tomorrow.  You get what sleep you can tonight and I’ll… no, there’s little way I can make tomorrow easy, but I _can_ line things up so you’ll see your bed at a reasonable hour.”

      “Sounds… about as expected.  Thanks, mate… I’ll brace Mycroft as best I can for the few possibilities he might encounter.”

      “Good.  Expect me… probably three hours.  Anthea and I will be hungry enough to consider cannibalism by then and I’ll grab food after making my grand performance at your place.”

      “See you then.”

      “See who, when?”

Greg turned around to find Mycroft, freshly scrubbed, wearing his carefully-chosen, borrowed clothing and was utterly entranced by how adorable his writer looked when slightly off his norm.

      “Anderson. In about three hours.  He and Anthea are manning the battlements and he’ll make an appearance here later when he steps out for something to keep up their tiger-like energy.  Sounds like they have everything under control on the media front, too.”

Greg nodded at Mycroft to have a seat on the sofa, then made a ‘want a drink’ motion and acted on Mycroft’s ‘yes, please’ with two whiskies and a hastily put-together tray of bread and cheese so there was something in their stomachs _besides_ whisky.  While Mycroft sipped and nibbled, Greg filled him in on the various bits of news and was extremely happy that his guest’s head kept nodding in approval as each little scheme was laid out.

      “Most impressive.  I am not entirely happy about personal photographs being freely shared, however, their use as a tool of subterfuge is far more important than my wish they be kept private.”

      “I have no doubt Anthea didn’t make the decision easily or lightly, knowing your views on the subject.”

      “No, she would not.  The entire… operation… appears very sound and what little participation I may have or inconvenience I might experience shall be minor.  I am not content, though, with the rigamarole _you_ shall endure.”

      “All normal for me, so my days won’t really see any change except for the nature of the questions I’ll be asked at interviews and the people who’ll be doing the interviewing, because this sort of thing pulls the news reporters out of their lair to brave the depravity of the entertainment world.  And, I get a few extra days in London as a bonus.”

      “Which, it seems, I shall share with you.”

When Mycroft let a full, absolutely-delighted smile blossom on his lips, no real blossom in this world approached it in beauty.

      “You’re smiling.  I don’t think I’ve seen you smile when you’ve mentioned London before.”

      “Another new experience to add to my list of life’s accomplishments.”

      “Ha!  Well, here to more and better ones.  So… do you want me to phone for a car or cab or… fancy a film?  I can do popcorn, though, not nearly as professionally as Mrs. Hudson.  I even have Diet Coke.”

      “Oh… I believe I would far prefer the film.”

      “Then that’s our plan!  I’ll keep these nibbles right here and get some popcorn popping.  You want to look through the channels for something interesting?  The remote is right there.”

From the look Mycroft gave the remote, which even Greg could see had the remains of whatever he was nibbling when he last used it adhering to one or two buttons, the answer was no.

      “Or… you can supervise me in the kitchen, then _I_ can do the channel summoning for us to find something acceptable.”

      “An excellent suggestion.  I have very firm ideas about the nature of the oil one should use for properly-prepared popcorn, as well as the cooking vessel employed for the task.”

Oil?  Ok… binning the idea of one of those bags you toss in the microwave for the pixies to turn into white fluffiness.  There _was_ a jar of real popcorn somewhere, if his memory served him well.  And he had pans.  And pots.  Oil, too!  And, more than lovely fruity olive oil that he used for a quick dip for bread or drizzled on a luscious piece of fish.

Ok, they were officially headed for a flaming dance of death.  The likelihood the fire service would be out before nightfall was high, but, on the positive side, they were local lads he knew from the pub, so the lecture he got about how to make popcorn without burning down your house would be fairly short and painless…

__________

      “There went my fifty quid.”

Anderson stared at the sleeping Mycroft, who was stretched out on Greg’s sofa with a suspiciously-clean pillow beneath his head, along with a blanket over him for warmth and a sheet over and under him for protection from wayward germs from either the sofa _or_ the blanket, and had to admit that this scene was causing him no real surprise whatsoever.

      “It was the second whisky.  I considered suggesting he stop at one, but I felt certain I’d put enough in his stomach to weather another.  I was wrong.  He was snoring ten minutes after he finished it.  Deep asleep, too.  Didn’t even make a ‘leave me alone you fucker’ annoyed-sleeper face when I put the pillow under this head and tucked the sheet under him.  I thought about moving him to a guest room but decided the shock of waking up on my sofa would be less heart-stopping than waking up in my guest bed.  I’ll find out tomorrow if I was right and brave the consequences if I chose poorly.”

      “Put a piece of notepaper in the window if Mycroft murders you so I know to just keep going when the car arrives to take you to his house for breakfast.  Which _is_ what will happen if there’s someone to eat the breakfast besides your corpse and an under-arrest mystery writer.”

      “Will do.  How many of the photographers waiting to get a shot of us leaving here and/or arriving there are your hires?”

      “About half.  I’ll be here about eight-thirty, Anthea will show about fifteen minutes after that, we’ll have coffee… I mean, talk very serious business… for about twenty minutes to half an hour, then leave for Mycroft’s house, where Mycroft’s publisher will coincidentally arrive right behind us with Janine riding along in his car.”

      “You are muddying the waters like a water-muddying champion.”

      “Anthea and I concocted that bit of theatre after several glasses of excellent absinthe, because we had the Gary Oldman _Dracula_ on the telly and felt inspired.  Both for the alcohol and the crafty scheme.  So, acknowledge the cameras tomorrow, but emit that ‘in the middle of something work-related’ vibe that’ll keep their them shooting, but not try and yell questions or press forward to bother us.  Mycroft doesn’t have to do anything but not fall on his face walking to and from the car.”

      “No worries, then, since he _is_ a highly-skilled walker.  Years of practice to his credit.”

      “Alright, then.  Now, you and I will take a few moments to look over your schedule for tomorrow and the next day, then I’ll leave you alone to gaze fondly at your precious angel or get some rest yourself.  Or both… I wouldn’t put it past you to try and sleep with your eyes propped open so you can gaze and snooze simultaneously.”

      “He does look angelic, doesn’t he?”

      “You’re sad.  Besotted and sad.”

      “Neither of which impacts your bottom line, so you care why?”

      “You’re right!  I don’t care and, in fact, contemplating it gives me gas.”

      “If you wake Mycroft with one of your explosive farts, I’ll brain you harder than he did that criminal.”

      “I’ll do my best to hold it in.  No promises, though.  Dinner was rather bean and fiber heavy.”

      “Sit downwind.”

      “You’ve got high ceilings.  Gas rises.”

      “Air is gas, so explain why we’re not suffocating.”

      “I… I’ll have a properly researched and pithy response for you tomorrow.”

      “Mycroft will be marking your paper, so it had better be superb.”

      “I’ll have Anthea write it.  She knows his standards.”

Greg laughed at the silliness of it all and thanked his lucky stars for yet another time that _this_ was his agent and not somebody lacking a sense of humor or without the cleverness needed to do the job, but not be cynical and mean about it.  Importantly, too, he had the instincts to successfully interact with Mycroft, which would be extremely important since… since it was becoming harder and harder to even imagine his life without that sleepy, Fanta-drinking writer.  Making it work, in the long term, would be a challenge, but nothing good he’d ever wanted had been less.  _And_ , Mycroft was both good and someone he very, very much wanted… 


	40. Chapter 40

This was not his bed.  This was not _a_ bed…

      “Scooby Dooby Doo… where are you…”

Was this madness?  It… it was slightly more comfortable than he’d imagined madness to be.

      “… you’ve got some work to do now…”

Toast was in the air.  Not the physical presence of bread floating about like motes of dust, but the scent…

      “Scooby Dooby Doo… where are you… we need some help from you now…”

      “Toast?”

Mycroft’s warbled question brought Greg’s concert to a close and a grin to his lips.

      “It’s Greg, actually.  But there are days I wished I smelled as nice as this toast.  Good morning, Mycroft.  How’d you sleep?”

That was a rather interesting question, to Mycroft’s addled mind.

      “I… where am I?”

      “You are in my house, on my sofa.  I’d pass along the longitude and latitude, but I have no idea what they are.  The numbers, I mean, not the general concepts, because I do remember a bit from my geography lessons at school.”

      “That… I do not require so precise a specification of location. I simply… on your sofa?”

Greg’s smile widened, though Mycroft couldn’t see it, and he dropped the first bit of pre-breakfast on a plate, which, with his guest awake, was now deposited on a small platter with butter and several kinds of jam because he was nothing if not a good host.  And he had no idea which type the sleepy and slightly-confused Mycroft might prefer.

      “You had a hard night, love, and a bit too much whisky.  Like any normal person you nodded off, but showed more than the normal level of wanting to _stay_ asleep when I tried to nudge you towards a guest room.  So… toast?”

Mycroft’s brain was sputtering and not particularly able to decide on how it felt about sleeping in an unfamiliar place, on a sofa that had been _far_ too familiar with any number of unknown buttocks.  However, there did seem to have been erected around him a form of cotton cocoon and the pillow under his head boasted the standard smell of fresh bedlinens and his own hair, so…

      “Yes, that would be most welcome.”

      “We’ve got breakfast with your parents, and a few others later, but I woke earlier than expected and got a touch peckish, _also_ earlier than expected, so decided to make a little something to keep my stomach from rumbling.  I was trying not to wake you; sorry if I did.”

      “You were singing.”

      “Oh.  Yeah… that _would_ wake the dead, I do admit.”

      “I… no, that is not, at least I do not think that is the reason I woke.”

Greg decided not to pursue the issue, since his dear Mycroft appeared more confused than upset, and set down the small tray, motioning Mycroft to help himself, while he moved to pour some coffee for his own raggedy self and put the kettle on so Mycroft could have tea.

      “Gregory?”

      “Yeah?”

      “Your rug is somewhat antagonistic.”

      “O…k… maybe it’s because we walk on it all the time and never express a whit of gratitude.”

      “The red is most confrontational.”

      “That’s what red’s for, I suppose.  Unless it’s on a rose or a kid’s balloon.”

      “I… I am very off red today.”

Given he couldn’t surreptitiously send an emergency message to his self-proclaimed mother-in-law, Greg took a breath and waded in without a personal flotation device.

      “I can’t promise you won’t encounter it today, because that’s impossible, but I _can_ do my best not to steer you intentionally towards it and try to… de-red… what I can when you do encounter it.  At least for the morning; after that, I’m in the clutches of the media and that will go until tonight without much of a break.  I’ll phone, though, to see how you’re doing with… the redness.”

      “That is sufficient...”

Really?  Ok, not as hard as he thought.

      “… You may begin by disposing of the rug.”

Bamboozled!

      “Uh… no.  First, I actually like it and you’ll probably be back to tolerating it nicely by tomorrow.  Second, it’s rather massive and it’ll take at least one extra set of hands to move the furniture, roll it up and stow it away for the duration or toss it out as rubbish.  Those hands, I suspect, won’t be yours and there isn’t another option available.  Third, my mum chose it and she’d be upset to learn that my rug went into the bins without having a hole in it or a stain not even my expert cleaners could remove.  How about, instead, you rise and shine your way to the kitchen where there’s _very_ little red and we have our tea and toast, or coffee and toast, at the table.”

The lack of answer pulled Greg back across the large expanse to his sitting area to stand, then squat, then sit on the offending rug to talk to Mycroft whose head was still on the pillow on the sofa.

      “You ok, Mycroft?  Besides the red, I mean.”

      “I… I am finding it most difficult to reestablish my equilibrium.”

      “Hmmm… any idea why?”

      “No.  What… why is it bright?”

A little light flickered in Greg’s brain and he smiled at the realization.

      “Because it’s morning.  My morning, not yours.  You’ve gotten a bit flip-flopped, in terms of time, and that’s probably fuddling your brain.  That and a touch of a hangover.  Being on my sofa in borrowed clothes likely isn’t helping matters either, especially with the combative rug staring you in the face.”

      “That _is_ rather a lot.”

      “Come to the kitchen and I’ll make fresh toast for you.  Nice cup of tea, too.  That should help.”

      “Tea?”

      “As much as you want.”

      “What color is the cup?”

      “Uhh…”

Greg tried to remember what he had for real teacups and saucers and cursed that he wasn’t in the house often enough to have things like that on the tip of his tongue.

      “I’ve got some with a flowery pattern, I think.  I don’t remember any red, but there is some pink in there, as I recall.  Got some plainer ones, with a silvery rim, too.  Maybe.”

      “Maybe?”

      “I don’t use real cups and saucers often and… well, one night my mates and I decided to take a fake album cover photo, and we used the plain cups as props.  They ended up a bit worse for wear.  Drunkenness was involved as was… Mark had some amazing weed, so we were feeling no pain, which was good since a few of us ended as battered as the cups by the time the night was over.  It’s… it’s a long, embarrassing story, which I now feel very stupid and ashamed to actually have started.”

      “Oh dear.”

      “Yeah, so moving on to cups…”

      “The floral will suffice, provided your assessment of the red threat is valid.”

      “Deal.  Want to sit up now?”

      “I… no.”

      “Why not.”

      “I am unexpectedly comfortable.”

      “Except for the rug.”

      “Yes, that certainly is a fly in the ointment.”

      “I genuinely don’t know what to do about the fly at the moment besides move you away from its bothersomeness.”

      “I suppose you are correct.  And I do want toast.”

      “Well, this bit is cold, so I’ll eat it and we’ll get you some warm toast as a reward for getting up.”

This absolutely was his mother’s revenge for all the mornings she had to drag his teen self out of bed by the leg so he wasn’t late for school.  She’d be so, so happy right now…

      “Very well.  I shall now commence rising.”

Which Mycroft did as regally as his proclamation warranted.  It took everything Greg had, though, not to make a fuss over how positively adorable his Mycroft looked with mussed hair, rumpled clothes and still-sleepy eyes that were threatening to close even as he sat straight up on the sofa.

      “You did a great job.  Now, on your feet and walk.”

      “Ugh…”

      “You can stay wrapped if you want.”

Now, the adorableness escalated off the scale as Mycroft stood, wrapped in and dragging with him every bit of the makeshift bedding Greg had provided as he shuffled like a mummy towards the kitchen area to daintily take a seat at the table.

      “Jam?”

Greg picked up the tray from the sofa table and brought it back to its birthplace, putting the pots of jam on the table for Mycroft to inspect, while he put more bread in the toaster and got the kettle going a second time.  _And_ poured a second, large cup of coffee that made him sigh loudly with the first sip.

      “Gregory…”

Greg looked at Mycroft’s pointing finger and immediately removed the raspberry jam from the table.

      “Sorry about that.  I have honey, too, if that works for you.”

      “The marmalade seems acceptable.”

      “Good.  You already know my tea selection, so which shall it be this morning?”

      “Hmmmm… I need to see the containers.”

Continuing to sip his coffee, Greg used his free hand to pull out the boxes of tea in his cupboards, finishing just in time to grab the toast as it popped up to put in front of his marmalade-loving breakfast companion.

      “I choose this tea.  It should be acceptably bracing and the artwork on the packaging is crisply-lined.”

Greg was somewhat sure his parents spent their mornings much this way, though without the red prohibition and neither wearing the bedsheets.  He had to admit… it was nice.  Very nice, in point of fact…

      “Ok.  Eat your toast before it goes cold, alright.”

      “That is highly important, yes.  And what shall we enjoy to accompany our toast?”

      “Nothing, since we’re having a real breakfast in… what time is it… about two hours.”

      “That is _ages_ away.”

      “How much of you is actually hungry and how much of you is simply wanting something to settle a whisky-swishy tummy?”

      “I… hmmmm, that is a question that would require some thought.”

      “Eat your toast while you think and… want some eggs?  I can do eggs and they won’t spoil your second breakfast too terribly.”

This _was_ his parents!  Dad wanting a heaping plate of something and Mum tutting that it’d spoil his appetite for whatever else she was making that day.  He’d heard it with his own ears!  Often!  Ok… the domestic zone had officially been entered and there was not a single, fucking border guard or welcome sign anywhere to announce the fact.

      “Eggs would be most welcome.”

      “Alright, then… I’ll do a pan of eggs.  I’ll also catch you up on Anderson’s visit last night.”

      “Oh my… did he witness my slumber?”

      “It was fairly visible.  I did, however, prevent him taking photos or sitting on you like you were a sofa cushion.”

      “That is _some_ comfort, I suppose.”

Greg set the kettle on the table for Mycroft’s use, happy that the writer did use it and not wait for him to do it, since he had eggs to crack and more toast to make.  And another pot of coffee to brew.  It was going to be a long morning.  Before the _actual_ morning began, too.  But, this was a popular visitor’s attraction in Domestic Zone  - sharing all the things you needed to help prepare you for a long day and sending each other off on the best foot possible.

And, given Mycroft hadn’t made a peep about walking through the house only in socks, those feet seemed to be starting the day bravely, already…

__________

After the negotiation of egg-preparation outcomes, more toast, a shift in tea selection because the first, despite its cleanly-lined artwork, did not provide the necessary bracing needed for Mycroft’s eyes to want to stay open, and bouts of conversation that could have been lifted from any romcom breakfast scene in film history, Greg scratched his head, stretched and sighed loudly.

      “I suppose I’d best put more on my skin than these saggy track pants and The Who shirt.”

      “It certainly is not the presentation you would likely prefer for your interviews.”

      “No, it is, in a way.  They cake on so much makeup and hair product to make you look alive under all those lights that any bit of comfort you can manage is a blessing.  However, you’re absolutely right that it’s not the image I or the studio wants to project to the viewing public.  Besides, I’m representing your heroism!  And Sherlock’s, John’s and your dad’s, but only you actually caught the filthy murderer.  I’m still astonished by that.  Not that you did it, but that I was involved in a real murderer chase.  That’s the sort of thing I’ve done a hundred times on screen, but never in real life.  And you just dove right in like one of those film characters and took the bloke right out with one solid crack.”

      “It was rather astonishing to me, also.  Far more… legwork… than I would ever care to do on a regular basis, but the experience, in hindsight, was most illuminating.”

      “You’ve got your writer’s cap on, don’t you?”

      “No.  I am not wearing any form of hat.”

      “I mean, last night gave you some ideas for your writing.”

      “Ah!  Yes, yes, that is certainly the case.  As painful as it may be, I am contemplating discussing with Sherlock further of his actual cases to better infuse certain of my stories with a greater sense of authenticity.”

      “That’s a good idea, pain notwithstanding.  And I still want to go out with him and John on a case, if I can.  Not just the end bit that we saw last night, but get in early to see more of the process.”

      “Sherlock will complain, as is typical, but he will appreciate being viewed as an expert on the subject whose opinion is valued.”

      “Yeah, I got a bit of insight into why that might be important.  That DI was a colossal berk.”

      “Sherlock… he interacts poorly with others, at times, not with intent but simply… it is not wholly his area, though he genuinely cares and has a great heart for those in need and for those who strive to do good in this world.  It is not always obvious in his words, but if you observe closely his actions, you see the truth of it.  However, too few have the time or inclination _to_ observe closely and he suffers because of it.  _And_ does not hesitate to return the vitriol that he, himself, has received, often with a greater and more cutting quantity.”

      “Give back worse than you get… that’s been me more than a time or two, I’ll confess.  Ok… let me toss on something presentable and I’ll find something for you or, better idea, let’s start with you choosing from what I have clean that suits you for today.  I suspect you’re ready to get out of those clothes now that you’ve spent the night in them.”

      “Very much so.  I do feel rather adventurous at the moment… still wearing the borrowed garments in which I have slept… however, something clean would be welcome.  I shall also shower, given I have vetted your hygiene products.”

      “Speaking of… want a toothbrush still in its package and unopened toothpaste?”

      “Want?  Crave is a better descriptor.”

      “Then you shall have them!  This, I, King Greg, do declare.”

      “Very monarchical, I heartily approve.  Might I have that now, as well?”

      “Sure.  I’ll tidy the dishes after we’re sorted enough to pass for human.  Let’s go.”

Mycroft took only two looks back at the uncleared table before following Greg to a guest room for his supplies, then to a second guest room because the first room’s toothpaste had a red strip swirled in the paste, then back to Greg’s room for a long look through the actor’s clothes to find something to fit Mycroft’s frame and aesthetic sensibilities.  The fact that Mycroft remained wrapped in his mummy sheet the entire time was so cute Greg couldn’t help but snap a sneaky photo to capture the moment for posterity. 

      “All set?”

      “Yes, thank you.  Though, I am not entirely convinced that underpants emblazoned with a bat symbol shall invigorate my being in the way you describe.”

      “You’ll feel very formidable, I promise.”

      “Very well.  I suppose one must occasionally embrace new experiences.”

The mummy shuffled its way out of Greg’s bedroom, arms laden with gifts and tributes, towards the guest bath that had been chosen for his quick shower and grooming protocol, leaving Greg to pause a moment and reflect on how persnickety was his Mycroft and how simple it was to fall into the patterns necessary to keep him even-keeled for the little things that happened during the day.  Half the time he didn’t really notice that he was repositioning this or that, holding up multiple examples of things for approval, making tiny adjustments in what he said or did that made no difference to him, but meant a great deal to Mycroft.  It was easy.  Very easy.  _Should_ it be this easy?  Admittedly, that’s what he’d been told when all of this started and none of the advice he’d been given had proven wrong so far.  Go with the flow and things are easy and surprisingly normal.  When that can’t happen, dig in and push for compromise.  And it was working.

Working amazingly, fantastically well.  He loved it, too.  As atypical might be his Mycroft, he loved every moment of their time together and that feeling was burrowing in.  Deeply in.  So deeply that he wished beyond anything that many mornings could start this way.  And, that many of _those_ many might start a slightly different way.  Mycroft waking up, just as disheveled and heavy-eyed, but in this bed, rather than on the sofa.  And _he_ was next to Mycroft in that bed.  That, after their popcorn and film, once the whisky had worked its magic, he could have carried his Mycroft to bed, tucked him in and nestled beside him, falling to sleep with the scent of Mycroft’s skin perfuming what they both thought of as their bed.

And what’s to say that his gorgeous man, waking up in their cozy bed, would want something _before_ a bite of breakfast.  Something fast and filthy or slow and sweet… something that, either way, would set their nerves on fire.  Something that would make this rather demanding hard on he was currently sporting a very happy fellow indeed.  By a method that involved using more than his own hand.  Which, he had to admit, was a rather common occurrence of late.  Both the hard on _and_ the self-service.  Every time he lay in bed thinking about Mycroft, his blood would start to boil.   The man was sex on two legs, even if Mycroft would probably deny it.  Handsome, elegant, moved like a dancer.  Those long nimble fingers, long agile feet, legs up to his swanlike neck… his cock had to be majestic.  Long, lean, graceful, beckoning… the sort of thing that made your mouth water to think about.

And, since nobody was here, that thinking could happily happen as an accompaniment to a touch of self-enjoyment before he packed away the naughty thoughts for awhile.  Having a raging erection while being interviewed by Graham Norton really wasn’t how he wanted the day to end…

__________

Shampoo slightly to the left… there.  That made a very pleasing symmetry with the soap.  Even the rather cacophonous curves of the shower could not dampen this delightful symmetry and that would greatly enhance his washing experience.  Which, in truth, he was not entirely certain how he was weathering with as much aplomb as he was, but it was never a good idea to look a gift horse in the mouth.  Or any horse.  Their oral hygiene could not, in any manner, be described as stellar.

But he _was_ weathering it and, to his great surprise… it was not overly difficult.  The areas of most discomfort had been quickly remedied and he could not claim that Gregory failed to take seriously all elements of negotiations for more elaborate or complicated scenarios.  And… it was wonderful.  Wonderful and natural and unthought about.  It was, and this was a somewhat rattling thought, much like what he observed for his parents.  They had a rhythm, a synchrony to their daily interactions that made for a very contented household.  Father managed Mummy’s daily lunacy with an ease that seemed almost as much a part of who he was as his spectacles.  And, dear heavens… did his Gregory have a bounty of lunacy to call his own.

He was managing it, though.  With very much the same ease as his father.  True, sometimes it was difficult due to his own situation at a particular moment, such as last night, but even then… he trusted.  Trusted fully and unquestioningly that Gregory would support, even when he was not certain if Gregory would be pleased with either his conduct during the evening or in the aftermath.  That trust was given without hesitation and, again, it was a wonderful thing.

What was _not_ wonderful, however, was this shirt.  How had he forgotten to check the label!  The thought, the mere notion of red-colored laundering instructions rubbing thuggishly against the nape of his neck… it was intolerable!  Fortunately, Gregory had a shocking quantity of garments, most were abhorrent, of course, but some were quite serviceable, and a replacement should be easy to obtain.

__________

      “Knock knock, Gregory…”

      “ _Mycroft_ …”

Good.  He was not yet in the shower.  The shirt-replacement would not have to wait longer than the opening of this door and…

      “Oh dear.”

      “I… ok… I ummmm…”

Greg kicked himself for sounding stupid, but what do you say when you’re standing there with your cock in your hand having a quick wank!  There isn’t a speech for that written down in a book anywhere that might be helpful for this scenario!

      “I… Gregory, I knocked.  I heard my name and assumed it was permission to enter.  Obviously, that was not… Gregory, why were you calling my name if, clearly, you were not inviting me to enter?”

Standing there with your cock in your hand and having to explain that you were having a filthy fantasy about the person staring at you looking confused was not how a person’s day should begin.  There should be a law against it.  A big law.  One they wrote about in the newspapers and taught in school.

      “That’s… not important.  Ummm… yeah, what… ummm… what did you want?”

      “Gregory… were you masturbating?”

He asked that!  Mycroft actually asked that and dead was not dead enough to be in this situation.  Not even close.

      “No?”

      “Your hand is grasping your penis.”

      “Could… could you not say that?”

      “Why not?  It is true.”

      “Yeah, but…”

      “And you are still grasping it.”

That’s because I’m afraid to move in hopes you’ll forget I’m here and go away!

      “I’m…”

Time for honesty?  It usually worked with Mycroft.

      “I’m embarrassed, alright?”

Mycroft blinked a moment, then slowly felt some degree of comprehension thread through him, which was quickly followed by intense confusion that he, himself, was not mortified nigh unto death with his own embarrassment.  However… his Gregory was cock bare!  And it was a magnificent sight to behold… that was obviously more invigorating than the mortification was life-threatening, hence his continued mental survival.

      “Oh, I see.  I understand, I suppose, however, it _is_ a normal male urge and… I do not recall seeing your penis in your films, but I can now attest it is… most attractive.”

Greg gaped as Mycroft moved closer to inspect his attractive cock and decided that it wasn’t the worst thing in the world to happen.  Not by a long shot.  Mycroft wasn’t upset and genuinely seemed to be… drawn… to his old chap like a moth to a flame.  That… that was flattering, actually.

      “Attractive, you say… that sounds promising.”

      “Father’s predictions were laudably accurate for length and girth.”

Dying again!  Dying and doing the shoveling to fill in grave, too.  Not going to trust anyone else with the task because this was a death that had to be done right with no cocking about.  Though the cocking part _was_ fairly apt right now…

      “That’s… that’s good to know.”

      “Predictive metrics based on your fingers and toes.  I supplied the data for your toes.”

And cock stays hard as a rock because it’s a prideful prat and is happy that it’s being noticed and has been thought about, in depth, with metrics!  Or maybe because its owner is a bit of an exhibitionist and having a gorgeous man gazing at his cock was moving him swiftly from embarrassed to stimulated.

      “That was very helpful of you…”

Should he?  Mycroft was still displaying no signs of distress or wanting to bolt out of the room…

      “… if you want, you can check more closely.  For those length and girth metrics, I mean.”

Mycroft’s face twisted a bit in confusion, but that changed to a very different expression when he looked up for clarification and found his eyes locked with Greg’s in a way they hadn’t before.  This way made a slow tingle run down his spine and settle in a very compelling way in his lower abdomen.

      “What do you suggest?”

Greg’s brain stopped a second then sputtered back to life like a lightbulb with a dodgy connection.  Was that a sexy question?  This was Mycroft, so it could easily be a straightforward question, especially given the lack of seductive tone or wiggled eyebrows or any of the other telling signs of sexy questioning.  Straightforward it is…

      “Whatever is comfortable for you.  You can watch, closely, as I… _showcase_ this fine gentleman or you can do a bit of active measuring with those hands of yours.”

Now it was Mycroft’s turn for his brain to flicker, though not enough for a full reboot procedure to be necessary.  What Gregory was suggesting… so scandalous.  So utterly salacious.  But so fantastically enticing…

      “Oh… both sound most… I honestly do not have the proper word to fully express my thoughts.”

      “It is a good word that you don’t have for those thoughts?”

      “A _very_ good word.”

      “Then… how about I start, and you can… make yourself comfortable with whatever level of… measuring… you want?”

Being a touch of an exhibitionist came in handy in a lot of ways, one of which was being extremely willing to slide your trousers down even further to give your wide-eyed writer boyfriend the chance to be the audience for a slow, sensual wank.  Having his Mycroft’s eyes on him, watching every motion with laser-like intensity was only serving to escalate his own arousal and nothing could stop the small moans that were escaping his lips with greater and greater frequency.  All of which was making the bulge in Mycroft’s trousers lusciously large in response.

      “I do this a lot, Mycroft… thinking about you.  Lying in bed, your gorgeous face in my mind… my cock gets so hard there’s nothing for it but to give him some relief.   You excite me… nobody has ever excited me like this…”

Mycroft gulped loudly and took a tiny step forward to draw a finger along Greg’s hand as it moved up and down, stroking the thick shaft of his rigid cock.

      “Gregory… you are majestic in your pleasure.”

      “You are, too.  You _are_ feeling pleasure right now, aren’t you?  Your cock’s hard and desperate for release, isn’t it…”

Not even Mycroft’s normal control could stop him shifting a little in response to the surge of arousal that made his cock twitch in answer to Greg’s question.

      “Y… yes.”

      “You can do it, if you want.  What I’m doing right now.  I’d love, I’d be _honored_ to watch you come and fill your mind with stars.”

Mycroft gasped softly as he struggled to keep himself from doing that very thing immediately and it was only when he could be certain, absolutely certain, that he would not shame himself that he licked his lips and gradually unbuttoned then drew down the zipper of his trousers, carefully pushing them down slightly to expose his long, insistent erection, which he took in his hand and slowly began to stroke.

      “Fuck me… I knew your cock would be gorgeous, love.  I knew it, but I couldn’t have imagined that amount of beauty.  Your face right now, the passion in your eyes, the flush of pleasure on your cheeks… I can’t wait until it’s my mouth sucking you off, licking every bit of that gorgeousness, swallowing every drop of your arousal when it spills down my throat…”

      “Gregory… what you do to me…”

      “I’ll do everything to you.  Everything you want.  Everything you’ve fantasized about, dreamt of… and I’ll beg you to do all of that to me, too.  Take my body and play whatever games you want, try whatever you’ve been curious about… whatever you can imagine, it’s yours.”

      “I… I can imagine a great deal, Gregory.”

      “Perfect.  I can, too.  I can imagine tying you down, slipping a vibrator in your arse and riding your hard cock until you’re weeping you want to come so badly.  Would you want that?”

      “Yes…”

      “And reversing the roles, too?”

      “Yes… oh, Gregory… I cannot… I cannot last… I _need_ …”

      “I know, Mycroft.  And I want to see it, want to know your face when you fly.  You’re so, so close, love… do it.  Do it now.  Come for me, Mycroft…”

After two quick, shuddery breaths, Mycroft’s body obeyed with a soundless stiffening of his muscles and a heavy flow of semen that painted Mycroft’s fingers with a milky shine that made Greg’s own breath quicken as he imagined taking it on his lips.

      “Oh fuck… that’s glorious.  Fucking amazingly glorious… ‘s my turn now… fuck, I’m close… so fucking close… ok… _yes_ …”

Mycroft’s own moan of delight mixed with Greg’s, though Mycroft’s was solely for the most entrancing visual image he’d ever witnessed.  His Gregory’s thrown back head, half-closed eyes and glistening cock captivated him like nothing he had ever experienced.  And… it was for him.  This was for _him_ and there was more waiting.  Much, much more…

      “Gregory… I have no words.”

      “Ha… good to know my sexiness drains your vocabulary, as well as your cock.”

      “It does… it surely… oh dear…”

Greg heard the tiny shift in Mycroft’s tone and smiled at the sight of his adorable man realizing that his hands were possibly more soiled right now than they were last night from the spade.  However, a closer look didn’t show any potential return to _other_ aspects of last night, so he simply closed the distance between them, caught Mycroft’s eye before leaning in for a kiss and kept the kiss going as he used his shirt for a pre-washing wipe of the writer’s fingers.

      “Yeah, it’s messy and can be sweaty, too.  But… you have to admit that it’s worth the muss and fuss.”

      “It is a truth I cannot deny.  I am transfixed by this moment, Gregory.  That is also a truth I cannot deny...”

This time, it was Mycroft who leaned in for a kiss, but Greg’s fingers remained thoroughly untouched as not even the desire for reciprocity could compel Mycroft to use the red-tagged shirt in his hands as a cleansing cloth.

      “And… we shall pursue such things further, shall we not?”

Those words settled the final bit of worry in Greg’s mind that this very unplanned, spontaneous bit of fun might have not gone down wholly well with his partner.

      “Oh, absolutely.  I am positively giddy with anticipation of pleasuring you in every way, shape or form you want.  At your pace, though, ok?”

Mycroft’s tiny nod was accompanied by a wisp of a shy smile that had the smallest touches of smugness at the edges.

      “I am in charge?”

      “You’re always in charge, you evil man.  You tell me to jump, I ask how high.  You tell me you want another chips and shake outing, I ask when you’d like that to be.  You demand I press against your back in the shower and stroke you until you’re screaming to come, and I start the water going.”

      “Now?”

Greg laughed and took another quick kiss from Mycroft’s lips, with a tiny nose bob for added in for a little something extra.

      “I will happily share a shower with you, kind sir, but I don’t suspect either of us is going to be ready for another hard on without a bit more rest time.”

      “Ah, yes.  In my eagerness I completely forgot about the refractory period.  In any case, I suspect you have returned your personal washing products to your shower and they are certainly not my cup of tea.”

      “Then we wait on the sexy shower for another time and we’ll make absolutely sure that everything is picture perfect in the sudsy department for maximum enjoyment.”

      “A stellar bargain.  Now… I must wash my hands.”

      “Me, too.  As well as a few other things so I don’t scare the innocents when I set foot out of here.”

Mycroft nodded in agreement, then returned his trouser situation to normal and spun on his heel to complete his morning preparations, stopping at Greg’s bedroom door to turn and take another look at the great gift that had entered his life.  His Gregory was the kindest, most patient and decent man… and the most physically stimulating specimen of masculinity the world had ever seen.  And that was not biased!  Millions of people agreed, but _he_ was sufficiently privileged to have viewed his Gregory’s penis, which vaulted the appeal beyond the capacity of science to measure.

Damnation!  In his excitement, he had failed to take a single actual measurement _of_ the penis!  Well, nothing for it now, however, there would be other opportunities.  Many more opportunities and with, hopefully, a dizzying frequency of occurrence.  This sex business was a grand and marvelous thing, far more enthralling than what he had accomplished on his own, left to his own devices.

And he was in charge.  That meant not only the scheduling, but the techniques and duration, all of which was very much to his liking.  He certainly, for example, did not want their lovemaking to be disrupted by an entirely unsuitable bottle of lubricant looming into view.  What an appalling thought.  Clearly, this would require substantial research.  Fortunately, Gregory would be away for a bit, so that research had a proper window of time to be conducted thoroughly and it was highly likely Father had already made some progress in that area, given he was an unrepentant meddler.  And, this one, single time, the meddling might earn him a morsel of gratitude…


	41. Chapter 41

If one was not in the know, one might assume Mycroft was going sequentially through his books, one by one, looking for an appropriate volume to read as a capstone for a very busy day and even busier previous night.

If one _was_ in the know, as was his father, you would know that Mycroft was sequentially touching each of his books in his London study as a ritual to help steady himself and restore some semblance of normalcy to his life.

      “Your mother wants to know if you require anything.”

Mycroft froze in place a moment, startled by the unexpected voice, then relaxed from the knowledge that it was only his father.

      “No.”

      “She also wants to know if you would like to view Gregory on the Jeff Norman program later.  It is a special live broadcast which she believes is most exciting and vitally important.”

      “Who is that?”

      “An interviewer.  He has… a sofa.”

      “Why is that relevant?”

      “I have no idea, but your mother finds it pertinent.”

      “Wait… was it Graham Norton that you meant?”

      “Perhaps.  I was not paying a great deal of attention.”

      “Gregory mentioned him, though not the live broadcast aspect.  He was not _not_ looking forward to the experience, however.”

Bertie stepped further into the space and analyzed his son’s posture, which screamed that the experiences of late had taken their toll.

      “And you, Mycroft?  We have not had a chance to talk since last night. At least, not a chance to talk when not surrounded by a chorus of cacophony.”

Which was well and truly the case as both Holmes men were concerned.  The morning, into early afternoon was taken up by a large gathering for breakfast where, it must be admitted, an admirable amount of strategy was laid out and refined, as well as business plans crafted, so the productivity angle could not be denied.  However, the noise… the nonstop chatter… it was a trying thing and it did not diminish substantially once Greg had left with Anderson to act as the face of the previous night’s events in front of the public and press.

Greg’s leaving, though, had been something of a flipped switch that neither Mycroft’s mother or father could miss, given their son quickly moved towards what could be another offline event and they kept close watch as he retreated further and further from the conversation until Dolly and asked him to help her with something, walked him to his study, kissed her finger and laid it on his cheek, then told him to have a bit of a rest after his long morning.  A rest that ultimately amounted to Mycroft sitting on the small sofa and staring out the window, holding and rolling about in his hands a smaller version of his beloved crystal sphere, while his mind focused on his Gregory and the comfort that image provided so readily.

      “I am doing very well, thank you for asking.”

      “That was your standard patter when you were younger and wanted to deflect from the issue.”

      “Is it?  My, what a coincidence.”

Bertie tut-tutted and took a seat in his usual chair for that room, waiting until Mycroft reached the end of a row of books to be able to stop touching each spine in turn, so he could also take a seat for their talk.  Then _continued_ to wait, because there was one final row in that section of the bookshelf and it had to be dealt with before any further progress could occur.

      “Have… has everyone departed, Father?”

      “Twenty-four minutes ago.  Sherlock and John were the last to leave.  Anderson returned for a short while to participate in certain negotiations for Gregory’s image-use on book covers and potential graphic novel presentations, then left with Anthea and her publisher for another set of meetings.  It seems a rather hectic thing, this talent-representative business, but I suppose there is a job for all personality types.”

      “Did he… how is Gregory?”

Bertie took out Mycroft’s mobile, which Dolly had pickpocketed before she steered him towards a recuperative time out, and returned it to his son.

      “He has phoned regularly to check on you.  Your mother has acted in your stead.”

      “Oh.  I wondered… he said he would phone…”

      “And he kept his word.  Your mother believed, and I could not find fault with her reasoning, that while you might be soothed, temporarily, by Gregory’s voice, a series of disruptions would not allow you the time necessary to gather your proverbial threads back into whole cloth.  She also informed Gregory of this, so he is aware of the reason you were not answering personally.  It did not prevent him from phoning, however, so that should most likely be considered an act of concern and compassion.”

      “Gregory is a man of exemplary character.”

      “I agree.  I have had to reflect on my own biases since meeting him.  I would have predicted a very different person from his films and various interviews he has given.  I realize now that what the public sees is somewhat a disguise for the real man, though there are clearly overlapping elements on the Venn diagram of his artificial demeanor and his true one.”

      “True.  His whimsical streak, for example.”

      “Yes.  And his capacity for caring.  I take it your time with him last night was… helpful.”

      “It was.  Gregory was most solicitous and once… certain matters… had been laid to rest, we enjoyed a very pleasant time with a film.”

      “You were satisfied with the care and support he provided?”

      “I was.  I… a measure of my distress surrounded how Gregory both might perceive my circumstances and respond to them, but there was no area where he was anything but effective and obliging.”

      “Then I will ask no more about it.  Your mother wishes to know if you engaged in sex, however, so we may move onto that next.”

      “Certainly not.”

      “Was that an answer to your mother’s question or a refusal to discuss the matter?”

      “The latter.”

      “Then you _did_ engage in sex but are too prudish to discuss the details.”

      “False.”

      “For which element of my sentence?”

      “This would be far easier if you did not include multiple tangents within single sentences.”

      “A valid point.  I shall correct.”

      “Thank you.”

      “Did you have sex with Gregory?”

      “Stop asking that!”

      “Why?  It was a single tangent as you requested.”

      “It is my and Gregory’s personal business.”

      “You have collected your individual selves into a group.”

      “I have no idea why you are making that statement, since that has been the case for some time now.”

      “False.  Or, somewhat, but not entirely true.  There was a full 32% shift in your tone and that is statistically significant, I have little doubt.”

      “Meaning what?  You have added little, nay, nothing to my understanding.”

      “Your mother believes you love him and that love is reciprocated.”

Bertie waited the long moment while Mycroft sat there blinking and was about to rise to collect one of the recently-touched books for his own reading purposes when Mycroft sputtered back to life.

      “She… Mummy believes Gregory loves me?”

      “And I concur with her observation.  We are both very happy for you and most content with the manner in which your Gregory treats you.  He has proven to be a man worthy of your hand.”

      “I… we are not now preparing to wed!”

      “The temporal aspect is irrelevant.”

      “The wedding part, however, is!”

      “Interesting.  I did not envision you opting for the more bohemian lifestyle of non-wedded cohabitation, however, you do, on the rare occasion, surprise me.”

      “We… I have only once seen Gregory’s penis!  How can I marry a man where that stands as the sole data point!”

      “History will provide numerous examples where one data point is more than many marriage records have sported prior to commencing, and that unblemished slate continues _after_ the marriage for many, as well, though children are somehow produced.  I suppose by some measure of trial and error, but the fact stands.”

      “That… yes, I suppose you have a point.”

      “I typically do.”

      “However, my position remains unchanged.  We… we, arguably, are still new to each other, Father.  Haste not only makes waste, it also makes mistakes and that is not something I can afford.”

      “You believe your love for him is a mistake.”

      “Under no circumstances is my love for Gregory a mistake, it is the brightest light in my heart, however, that… FATHER!  You tricked me!”

As if the Excited Dormouse grin on his father’s face was not evidence enough, the accompanying light tapping of his fingertips against his thighs was the final straw.  Not only was his pater cognizant of his heinous act, he was highly pleased with it, too.

      “I did.  And did it well.”

      “Damn your chicanery.”

      “It was effective, so I am not ashamed.”

      “You should be.”

      “For what reason?”

      “It… general decency.”

      “Pfft.”

      “Fair.  That was not a stellar response on my part.”

      “No, it was not.  In concession, however, I admit you are not at your argumentative best at the moment, for reasons not a fault of your own.”

      “True… it has been a difficult bevy of hours I have endured.”

      “Though your love for Gregory was a help.”

      “Amusing.”

      “It was not intended to be.  Consider Sherlock’s love for John.  Your brother’s ability to manage in the world has improved significantly with a steadfast partner in his life, someone to facilitate his interactions with others, offer needed explanations, support and comfort when necessary, defend and protect, at times… would you argue that your Gregory does less for you?”

      “I… no, I would certainly not argue that.  He has become someone from whom I can draw a surprising amount of strength and who offers… he accepts me for who I am, is proud of that person, besides.  It feels somewhat infantile to say but… I feel safe with him.  It may not eliminate my reaction to certain situations, but there is a part of me that knows Gregory _will_ defend and protect and… it helps.”

      “Your mother’s and my greatest worry or, more accurately, _one_ of our major worries was that you would, at best, find someone who, for lack of a better term, ignored the qualities that make you uniquely you.  It would not be a terrible outcome for there are possibilities that are much, much worse, however, our hope was that you would find a person who acknowledged all elements and aspects of the man that is you and embraced them gladly.  That you have done.  And, already, we see the benefit.  Your mother was most emotionally overcome that your Gregory reached out for advice during your episode last night.  He demonstrated clear concern for you, but was, in no manner, irritated, frustrated or embarrassed.  In her words, it was as if he was phoning about how you preferred your socks to be folded.”

      “I prefer they be rolled.”

      “Something about which I reminded her.  In any case, she took that as evidence, along with her already bulging portfolio of purported evidence, that he was in love with you.  You have denied the situation previously, however, we were both convinced your own mind had turned in that direction, as well.”

      “I…”

      “You have already revealed yourself, Mycroft, so kindly do not attempt to deny the obvious.”

Evil man.

      “I am not attempting to dissemble, I am simply…”

The look on his son’s face was a familiar one to Bertie and he conceded that broaching this conversation, at this particular time, may not have been a wise course of action.

      “Overwhelmed?”

      “Yes.”

      “I apologize, Mycroft.  Given your experiences of late, this was not a prudent choice of conversation topic on my part.”

      “It is complex.  Hard to analyze in detail.”

      “Yes, it is.  Emotions, relationships… complexity is a salient feature of both.  That supplements, I suppose, the interest  and appeal but it _can_ be a great deal to manage, at times.”

      “Does it… become easier?”

      “Have you met your mother?”

Mycroft surprised himself with a small snort of laughter, but credited his father with the point.  No, it would not become easier, but that was not, in totality, a bad thing.  A difficult thing, at times, perhaps, but not a bad one.

      “Touché.  I shall consider what you have said, just at a later date.  I do not have the mental energy at the moment for such a pivotal reflection.”

      “Acceptable.  Now, we shall return to your sexual encounter with Gregory.”

      “NO!  No, we shall not.”

      “Then you admit it existed.”

      “I admit nothing, I simply refuse to return to the topic in any form, including the hypothetical or theoretical.”

Though his father _was_ a distressingly-plentiful fount of information on all topics, including sexual ones…

      “I can see you reconsidering your statement, Mycroft.”

Satanically evil man.

      “I am not.  In principle.  Though, I will concede you have a puzzlingly-large storehouse of knowledge on the topic of human sexual behavior and no aversion to sharing it with anyone.”

      “Information is most beneficial when it is shared and contributes to a purpose.”

      “True, I suppose.  When the time comes, _when_ I require it, I trust you shall be amenable to providing what information I require in the area of sex and its practices.”

      “Of course.  If you disclose the dimensions of Gregory’s penis, I shall be able to provide useful information on condom sizes, degree and methods of preparation should you want him to penetrate you anally, what to anticipate for jaw ache for oral sex and any manner of other useful data.”

He had opened this door.  Done it willingly and knowingly.  He had not realized the horrors of Pandora’s Box would be unleashed into the world because of that, however.

      “Yes, thank you, Father.  I shall keep that very much in mind.”

      “Good.  And, given it appears you are unlikely to respond to your mother’s question, I shall give her my assessment in lieu of your response.”

      “WHAT!  No!  You will not fabricate a tale to satisfy her taste for salacious gossip!”

      “I will.  And she will enjoy it greatly.”

Bertie rose and walked slowly to the door, giving his son time to stew, seethe, fidget and, perhaps, finally, muster the courage to share his good news, which had been evident in his son’s and Gregory’s face the moment they walked into the house this morning.  Verily the sun did not beam as brightly as did they.

      “Mycroft?”

      “What?”

      “Did you enjoy it?”

Mycroft’s feet stamped on the floor in perfect toddler fashion, then he caught his father’s eye and felt the peevishness wash out of him because… he had.  He had enjoyed his time with Gregory more than he ever might have imagined and it was not shameful, inappropriate or illegal, so why should he not admit the fact.  Even if it was to his nosy father.

      “Yes.  It was immensely enjoyable.”

      “As it should be.  Congratulations, son.  You have done well.”

Mycroft waited for his father to leave before smiling then realized that he’d not provided a single detail about his experience, yet his father was content.  Meaning… meaning the likely thrust of the whole business was that both Father and Mummy already knew the truth and… were concerned whether he was happy.  Of course, the ridiculous man could simply have stated that clearly, however, his father was showing tendencies that were causing him to revise his theory that Sherlock’s demeanor was wholly Mummy’s genetic fault.

Mostly her fault, but the sneakier elements seemed to have a secondary source of creation, as well…

__________

      “Fuck a fat waddly duck.”

      “Did it give consent?”

      “It did.”

      “Then fuck away”

Greg ran a hand through his hair and took his permission for duck fucking to let loose a string of stress-releasing expletives while Anderson checked they were still on schedule, that nothing had been added _to_ that schedule and the green room arrangements at the BBC were being met to their specifications.  Not that the specifications were much of a burden, just a few cold Cokes to drink and a Bluetooth speaker so Greg could blast his horrible music if he wanted to fire himself up before he stepped out under the hot lights and into the very fake atmosphere of an interview program.  It was one of the reasons he was a frequent guess on the show – easy guests were a blessing for presenter and crew alike.

      “Feel better?”

      “Yeah.  This day ever going to end for me?”

Anderson held up his mobile so Greg could see the day’s outline, with all the items crossed off besides this last one and didn’t miss Greg’s happy, yet exhausted, sigh at the sight.

      “And this one’s easy, really.  You’ve done Graham Norton often enough that you could host the bloody show.  You’ve even done your share of live TV before, so no surprises there.  I’m not sure why they decided to drag Norton onto the air just because that sports special got pulled after the doping scandal, because that’s two _very_ different audiences, but good for us, I suppose.”

      “True.  Regardless, I’m about out of fucks to give, and energy, so it’s going to be a struggle to not be a prat and make a fool of myself.”

      “You always do that, so no loss there.  And, this time, you have something interesting to talk about, so it should be livelier than usual.  Or, at least, livelier with a point and purpose, as opposed to you playing air guitar while the musical talent performs.”

      “I only did that once.  And they got a lot of positive feedback about it, too.  I suppose I’d best stick to something a bit more sedate this time, though.  Talk about the reason the producers frantically phoned you, if there’s still interest in my crimefighting spree.”

      “You know there’s interest, you please-stroke-my-ego, bastard.  You’ve had nine interviews today about your little escapades and another eleven scheduled for tomorrow.”

      “Can’t I just do one and they spread around little snippets to publish as exclusives?”

      “Probably, but you know as well as I do that the reporters are as eager as anyone to hobnob with the rich and famous.”

      “Yeah, that’s true. And the photographers they bring along get to earn their wage, so I’ll make do.”

      “Call Mycroft, you’ll feel better.”

      “I’ve talked to Dolly enough today.”

Anderson held up his phone again to show Greg the text from Bertie that Mycroft was again in possession of his phone.

      “Oh.  Glad King Albert is keeping you informed.”

      “That he is.  I have also been informed that his wife wants autographed photos of your host tonight and any guests appearing with you.  If they request it, their mothers can have autographed photos of you in trade in the spirit of fairness.”

Greg started laughing and had little doubt his agent had already made the proper arrangements and there would be multiple behind-the-scenes exchanges of signed headshots to gain Dolly, and other mothers, their prizes.

      “Bertie is the man for a fair deal, that’s for certain.  Ok… get this over with and sleep?”

      “Sleep.  With whom is your business.”

      “Funny.  Mycroft is staying very much at home tonight, probably staying awake the whole time, so he can get back on his schedule.”

      “Ooh, forgot about that.  Good thing he’s staying home, then, because you shagging him to exhaustion might keep him from getting himself back on track.”

      “Funny, again.”

      “I thought so.  But…”

      “That sounds serious.”

      “Not precisely, but I do need to ask, from the standpoint of my job, if you plan on making your romance public.”

      “On The Graham Norton Show?”

      “We’d get tremendous publicity from that announcement, you have to admit.”

      “And Mycroft would be caught in the crosshairs, which is precisely what we’re trying to avoid.”

      “Agreed, but… do you think you can keep up the pretense of friends forever?  This isn’t your normal sort of relationship, Greg.  This one… looks like it’s going to last.  A long, long time.”

Greg ran his hand through his hair again and stared a moment out the window of the car before answering.

      “Yeah, I think it will, too.  Actually…”

      “You know it will.”

      “I can’t say that because nobody can predict the future, but I hope it will.  It’s my greatest hope, actually.”

      “Have you told Mycroft yet?”

      “That I want our relationship to last?”

Anderson wasn’t certain if Greg was intentionally playing clueless or actually _was_ clueless, but either way, it was time, it seemed, to speak plainly.

      “That you love him.”

      “Oh.  That.”

      “Just do it.  It’s embarrassing to watch you dance around the issue.”

      “What’s wrong with wanting to do things right?”

      “That makes no sense.”

      “Yes, it does.  You don’t just blurt out that sort of thing over toast and tea in the morning.  You… make it special.”

      “Ok, I can respect that, however, your idea of special is a pint and pizza while the match is on, so I doubt this is really your area of expertise.”

      “I can do better than that!  Something with flowers, Mycroft likes flowers so don’t glare at me, and candles with a particularly-fine meal.  Or a moonlight drive and a bit of a sit somewhere romantic.  I can do special.  I can do the hell out of special.”

      “Ok, let’s say I believe you.  When are you going to do your special whatever it is you’ll eventually do?”

      “When the time is right.”

      “Weak.”

      “What other answer can I give?  We’ll need time together, something that’s a touch in short supply right now.”

      “It takes two seconds to say I love you.”

      “If you’re a troll.  Greg Lestrade is not a troll.”

      “You look like one.”

      “Do you think Veronica is on makeup tonight?  She always does fantastic job diminishing my trollish features.”

      “Let’s hope so.  You’re not rich enough to pay out for all the ‘Shit!  I’ve gone blind!’ lawsuits from the viewers.  And, are you going to phone Mycroft or not?  We’re almost there.”

No, because now I’m worried I’ll stumble into three little words and completely blow my special, though yet to be decided upon, plans.

      “Afterwards.  We’ll have more time to chat and he can tell me how he thinks I did on the show.”

      “Think they’ll watch?”

      “Have you met his mother?”

      “Let me text ahead, then, to make certain Veronica does your face.  The anti-troll mission just went critical.”

Greg laughed again, but reminded himself that he was representing a larger swatch of people than normal, so looking good was paramount.  Push his current film, push Mycroft’s film, play up the players from last night, be his normal, charming self so everybody’s happy.  Especially Mycroft.  The man he loved would be watching tonight and he’d be an arse if he didn’t put on his best appearance…

__________

      “He said my name!  My name.  Me.  John Watson.  John Watson’s name was said on The Graham Norton Show.”

John’s sheer ecstasy was echoed by Dolly, who hugged him fiercely and bounced up and down with him on the sofa.

      “John has devolved into Lestrade’s lapdog again and I will not tolerate it another instant!”

Sherlock got doubly whacked, once by John and once by his own mother, who reached over John to do it, so he’d shut up and they wouldn’t miss anything.  This was the best thing ever to watch, to their mind.  Idris Elba and Greg on Graham Norton’s sofa, both being amazing and funny and smart and charming and Greg sitting in Idris Elba’s lap was now going to be Dolly’s screensaver for her computer at home as soon as Bertie had the recording they were promised and access to his editing tools.

      “Do not shriek over Gregory’s appearance, Sherlock.  He is doing an exemplary job of promoting our film and was sufficiently kind to give everyone involved in last night’s events a full measure of credit and praise.”

      “Shut it, Mycroft.  Eat more cake.”

      “There is not a speck of cake to be seen here, brother dear.”

Though the tray of snacks Mrs. Hudson had provided was both lavish and plentiful, likely so no calls for replenishment would be made during Gregory’s appearance which, he had no doubt, was being viewed by his staff in their own common sitting room.

      “Shhh… Mycroft.  You and Sherly both.  My heart!  Oh, it does my heart so good to see our Greg there, so handsome and sexy, doing the family proud.  Bertie!  I want a copy of all of this to give to our friends.  Everyone should see Greg being perfect and wonderful.”

      “That is not legal, Dorothy.”

      “I think you’re wrong.”

      “I have expert knowledge of all copyright laws relevant to every form of media and I assure you, it is.”

      “Doreen did something to get me a copy of that film I wanted to see on the Netflix.”

      “That is illegal.”

      “Doreen’s second cousin in on the council, so she has to be law-abiding by relation.  I think you’ve got something fuddled.”

Mycroft simply shook his head at his father since, first, the argument would not lead anywhere but to a large basket of wasted time and breath and, second, because the film clip being shown as part of Gregory’s interview seemed to be at an end.

      “Mummy, I believe your attention is again needed on the interview.”

      “What?  Oh!  Yes, you’re right.  We’re going to see that new film tomorrow, your dad and me, so I didn’t mind missing that little clip.  Not enough Greg in it for my liking, anyway.”

      “Sherlock and I will join you, Dolly, if you don’t mind.  I’m dying to see Greg in this.”

      “I refuse!  You are a vile traitor, John Watson!”

Not a sentiment shared, however, by the refuser’s mother.

      “Brilliant!  Oh, that’s a marvelous idea, John.  Family day at the cinema.  Perfect, simply perfect.  Bertie, the boys will be joining us, did you hear?”

      “I am sitting right here.”

      “That doesn’t mean you heard.  Sound plays tricks sometimes.”

Even Bertie knew not to sprint down that particular path and contented himself to focus his attention on the renewed interview where, he did have to admit, the actor was successfully promoting his son’s film, which was very much an obligation when one was part of a nearly-affianced couple.  Oh, that Jeff Norman was about to speak…

      “There we go!  Another box office success for you, Greg.  And, now, you have another film entering production.  Very different from your usual fare, isn’t it?”

      “Absolutely and I’m both eager and thankful for the opportunity.”

      “Based on, correct me if I’m wrong, the first book in Mycroft Holmes’s Diogenes Bell series.”

      “ _The Devil’s in the Details_ , yes.  First appearance of Bell and the right place, don’t you think, to set the first ever film with the detective.”

      “I’ve read it.  Adored it.  But… it’s definitely a new direction for you.”

      “Back to my roots, really, rather than a new direction.  I’ve been wanting to do something more in line with my early work and this was the perfect project for that.  The book is phenomenal, the character is one that any actor would dream of playing… I’m not going to lie, I practically begged for the role.  Tracked Mycroft down and prostrated myself on his doorstep, wouldn’t go away no matter how much his staff tried to chase me off with a broom.  I really believe in this film, so does the studio, and we’re committed to seeing it become something truly special.”

Dolly squealed and clapped, which Mycroft ignored, mostly because he was reveling in the warm memories of Greg’s first visit to the village.  Not the smoothest start, but it became something immeasurably wondrous.

      “If anyone can do it you can, that’s for certain.  Tell me more about Mycroft Holmes, though.  I saw the footage from last night, every single bit because who, frankly, _didn’t_ want to see every second of that business.  Someone is, hopefully, making a film of it as we speak because I’d be the first one in line to see it, but I have to say… you and Holmes look like old friends for just having met recently.”

That was putting it mildly, even Greg was prepared to admit.

      “We’ve had the chance to get to know each other and… you know how you meet someone and you connect?  Mycroft graciously allowed me access to him to learn more about the character and the book, gain some insights about motivations and circumstances and… it’s been a joy, really.  Getting to know the man behind that extraordinary talent has truly been a joy and, yeah, we _are_ like old friends now…”

More really.  Much more. And… well, there was no reason he couldn’t spell that out a little more clearly, at least for the person who’d understand it fully.  _Special_ could come about in a lot of ways and this certainly qualified by anyone’s definition…

      “… and I love the man.  I genuinely love everything about him.  He’s intensely private so people don’t get the chance to know what an incredible person he is, but I’ve been privileged to peek behind the curtain and I’ve absolutely come to believe that we’ll be toddling about as old gents, arguing over what color knickers his Adele Flatley is wearing in her latest literary appearance.  Sometimes you click and you’re an idiot if you don’t hold fast to that because we don’t find a lot of people in this world we do click with.  Friends, lovers, it doesn’t matter.  Life’s short and you hold on to special people, so I’m not letting that brilliant man get away, not on your life.”

Said with Greg’s brightest smile as Idris Elba inspected his fingers for a wedding ring and Graham Norton laughed and called for a bit of the footage showing Greg and Mycroft linked by the pinkie during the Scooby mission.

      “We can tell, Greg.  We can tell.  Does this mean more collaborations in the future?”

Frankly, at this point, nobody in the room cared about Greg’s answer because everybody was staring at Mycroft who, himself, was staring at the television screen struggling not to hyperventilate.  Knowing the very literal-minded individuals in the family who would be watching, there was no chance his Gregory had not chosen his words specifically to send a message.  One that would be lost on the rest of the world, as it certainly seemed to be on the interviewer, but not to one specific group of people who would see it for what it was.

      “MYCROFT!  Greg just… Bertie!  Our Mycroft just got an I Love You on live television!  Oh... I feel a little cry coming on…”

John and Bertie both extended tissues while they kept eyes on Mycroft, Bertie’s paternal and John’s professional, because he wasn’t yet convinced the impending hyperventilation would be avoided and that it might bring with it some form of heart event or stroke.

      “Ugh… Lestrade has declared himself.  And in the most nauseating manner possible.  Truly he is the only person sufficiently disgraceful to mate with Mycroft.”

John would happily have swatted his partner, but he couldn’t miss the small spark of happiness in Sherlock’s eyes at the thought of Mycroft actually gaining someone in his life to love.  Sherlock’s words, however, did serve to clear Mycroft’s gridlocked mental system enough to again process and express basic language.

      “Th… thank you, brother dear.  I shall pass along your assessment of our suitability to Gregory.”

      “And he can pass along funds to purchase my stomach pump if I am forced to share holidays with you both and your cooing, love-addled insipidity.”

      “I have no doubt a cheque shall be forthcoming.”

      “Mycroft?”

Mycroft’s attention broke from Sherlock’s performance and he turned towards Bertie who seemed simultaneously proud and concerned, which made Mycroft concerned in return.

      “Father?”

      “I am very impressed by Gregory’s courage.  Truly, an act appropriate for the depth of his devotion.  I am also gratified that his gesture has occurred within 12% of my predicted timeframe for your romantic progress.”

      “Thank you, Father. I, too, am overcome and astonished by Gregory’s romantic gesture, regardless of the point at which it occurred.”

      “Of course, you can do no less.”

Pardon?

      “P… pardon?  You expect me to declare my love on live television?”

      “No.  I doubt you would be able to get out the necessary words in that situation, therefore it is a fatally-flawed plan from the onset.  However, you must respond, and promptly, to _his_ declaration.”

      “Yes.  Yes, that must occur and the quicker the better.  However, I do not wish to disturb what is supposed to be his night of rest.”

      “In that, son, technology is likely an ally.”

Mycroft’s face clouded a moment, then a slow smile grew on his lips.

      “Yes, I believe you are correct.  For the moment, however, we shall watch the end of our program.  Then, perhaps… champagne?  I shall take action in the interval between the two.”

Dolly’s response was as enthusiastic as Sherlock’s was agonized, but the eavesdropping house staff moved quickly to check the champagne stock and start on preparing nibbles for what was sure to be an impromptu party.  If Ms. Anthea didn’t come flying into the house at some point, nearly as aflutter as her client, they’d be greatly surprised.  It wasn’t every day a once-in-a-lifetime event occurred and that certainly deserved a celebration with everyone who actually realized it had occurred…

__________

      “Well.  You did it, you great bastard.  And in grand style, too.  I honestly didn’t think you had it in you.”

Greg smiled at Anderson and wondered if his feet were touching the ground, because he felt like he was walking on air.  Getting that out in the open, even if only a few people would actually take his words literally, felt like a huge weight had been lifted off his chest.

      “Like that, did you?  When Greg Lestrade does something, he does it right.  Not quite what I’d planned, but you can’t say it doesn’t meet the definition of special.”

      “That I cannot.  Of course, now you get to wait until you talk to Mycroft for a response to your horrible overacting.”

      “Uh… au contraire.”

It was Greg’s turn to pull out his mobile and shove it in Anderson’s face, feeling no surprise that said face lit up like a flame, then quickly fell back to apathy in a very Sherlockian denial of glee.

      “I see.  Well, that’s sorted, then.  Quick burger then home for you?”

      “Sounds good.  Got the photos.”

Anderson patted his valise, then nodded towards the green room for Greg to get hosed off so they could leave.  On Greg’s part, he felt no shame that he was strutting beside his agent, feeling a bit cockier than normal.  Excellent interview performance, burger soon to be in his belly and one text on his phone that would never be erased:

_ I love you, too, Gregory. – MH _

Some days were better than others and this one was one of the best.  By far…


	42. Chapter 42

_ Sharply sounded a creak, as his feet pressed against the ancient wood of the Elizabethan floor… as if the wood itself was _ … angry?  No.  Despondent?  At what?  About what?  The anger one might understand given it was being trod upon, but there is no reason for a wooden floor plank to feel despair.  Unless, perhaps, it strived for a higher purpose. A greater fate.  A wall panel, mayhaps?  A length of wainscoting?  A particularly fetching example of crown molding?  Starting again…

_ Sharply sounded a creak, as his feet pressed against the ancient wood of the Elizabethan floor … as if the wood itself was … being crushed beneath the feet of a dinosaur!  Verily, a mastodon was patrolling the halls of Bainbridge House and its fetid breath was overcoming even the pungent perfume of dowager Baroness Bainbridge’s prize gardenias _ .

Huzzah!  A keenly-worded opening salvo to build tension in the reader as our protagonist creeps forward to investigate the soft, ghostly weeping that woke him from a sound slumber.  Oh, why was he even trying to write?  All of it was a whirligig of overwrought words and insipid, uninspired imagery.  Better prose was to be found in the agony column of the most incompetently managed local newspaper.

But how could he do anything but defile his computer with twaddle?  How could his brain be expected to function given… he was loved.  Such a boldly-declared love, too.  Not one bestowed upon many in this world, but he had been presented with the love of an incomparable man in a manner that was the stuff of the grandest romantic novels.  Gregory was his Heathcliff and he was Gregory’s Catherine, exchanging the most ardent of words upon the moors.

Oh dear.  How fortunate was it that telepaths did not exist lest there could, potentially, be another human who would know those thoughts and that would mandate nothing less than taking his own life in shame.  Probably through donning a billowing white gown before throwing himself into the savage arms of the sea, but, really, nothing less would be appropriate…

Mycroft would never admit to shouting ‘telepaths are real!’ as his mobile sounded, but he _might_ admit to hiding under his desk a moment to wait out the mental intrusion into his lair, with pains taken to describe the incident as retrieving a dropped pencil.  Once his brain returned from its traipsing through fantasyland, however, it realized it recognized the ringtone which was bringing with it a happy announcement.

      “Gregory!  Oh, my dear, I am so, so happy it is you.  And that telepaths are figments of the imagination.”

      “Ok… a good piece of knowledge to keep handy.  How are you, Mycroft?  I… I honestly have no idea what to say to you right now because of the enormous elephant in the room, so I’ll hop on that beastie and ride it like Hannibal – I love you, Mycroft Holmes.  There, you’ve heard it straight from me and not through me babbling nonsense on the telly.  I would have phoned sooner, but by the time we stopped for a bite and Anderson went over a few things with me for tomorrow… it’s late and I apologize and I’m babbling again.  Sorry.  I love you.”

The silence on the other end didn’t particularly worry Greg since he could picture a stock-still blinking Mycroft, sitting or standing, doing his best trying to process both the babble and its underlying message.

      “I… oh, I love you, too, Gregory.  I was utterly… your words on the television.  They impacted me much as the windswept waves of a typhoon impact the shore.”

Drat.  That was worse than his descent into _Wuthering Heights_.  What was wrong his mind!  Apparently, the neurochemical pathways required time to adjust to the new situation of being a brain in love.  Sherlock likely knew the chemicals involved, however, that conversation would only occur if it was, by coincidence a mystical incantation to prevent the destruction of the universe by a rather flamboyantly-dressed supervillain.

      “I know it was a bit… is gauche the right word for saying I love you in a riotously orange studio?  Maybe not, but orange aside, it seemed a good time since I knew you’d get the message and… well, if it was a message that upset you or one you didn’t want, there’d be loads of people there to help you think of a way to politely tell me to fuck off.”

      “I would never!  They were words I had never hoped to hear before we met but ones I have longed to hear now that we have grown closer.  I do, though, admit that I am having difficulty understanding…”

      ‘Yeah?”

      “As buoyant, as incandescent as I feel, I am unsure how to… it seems as if all has changed, yet, also, nothing in the slightest.”

      “Like the feeling was always there, just now has a name put to it?  Sort of like when you have an itchy foot that still itches the same now that you know what’s growing on you to make it itch?”

      “Dear god…”

      “I’m sorry.  Really, I am.  I can’t think right now and trying is just making things worse.  What I was trying to say, and failing like a lad who won the ribbon for failing at school, is I know what you mean because I feel the same thing.  I suppose that’s the way it should be, though.  If you told a person you loved them before you felt it… I can’t see any way that would be a good thing.  It would be bad, actually.  Very, very bad.  Rather like my ability to think.”

His Gregory’s clear mental befuddlement made Mycroft feel worlds better about the state of his own rather bewildered brain, signaling, again, how well suited were they for each other.

      “I believe I caught the thrust of your words.  And, in fairness, I must confess that I am having my own issues with rational or productive thought.  I have cruelly besmirched my latest book with the most nonsensical drive and I am highly surprised my computer has not exploded from the disgrace of it all.”

      “That makes me feel a _lot_ better.  And did you notice tonight – not one spoiler about your work even though Norton was hoping he’d get something out of me on that score.  He’s a fan, by the way, he wasn’t lying about that on the show.  Expect some very flattering letter to come your way from his agent to get a signed book or something.  He stormed my de-makeup session after the show to try to get me to drag you in front of the camera, but I said that would happen when you got an invitation to his and Katie Hopkins’s wedding, so I think that particular brushfire’s been quashed.”

      “Good.  I… I do not wish to be on television.”

      “No, and nobody expects you to be.  He wouldn’t be good at his job, though, if he and his people didn’t work to get interesting guests and you are definitely someone interesting.”

      “That is true, I am.  I still do not wish to be on television, however.”

      “I’ll handle all the telly rubbish and you can simply sit comfortably at home watching me make an arse of myself.  Oh, and tell your mum we got her the photos she wanted.  Anderson will drop those by tomorrow.”

      “Oh dear… I had no idea she bothered you for such a ridiculous thing.”

      “It wasn’t ridiculous.  Just… let’s hope your dad’s not the jealous type.  Idris Elba had a very special one waiting, a shirtless one, that’s probably going to put him higher on your mum’s lust list than me.”

      “He _is_ a most attractive and virile man.”

      “We thought about doing a film together, then decided it was just too much sexiness in the same place at the same time to be safe for the viewing audience.”

      “Mummy would be first in line at the premiere.  John, I suspect, would be next to her.”

      “Two guaranteed ticket purchases.  Already we’re making money.  I can use my portion of the profits to buy you at least two humbugs.  Only the best for my Mycroft.”

      “That does remind me to have Mrs. Hudson replenish my butterscotch.”

      “I’m sure she’ll do that as soon as you’re home.  Only a few more days and you’ll be away from horrid old London and back in paradise.”

      “I am counting the seconds.  I… I simply am not suited for this city.”

      “Nothing wrong with that.  I think you’ve found the perfect place for you and your writing and it’s not as if it’s too far away from London that it’s difficult to travel between the two.  I’m glad you’re where you are because even someone as unobservant as me can see you much happier you are when you’re truly at home.”

      “Gregory… we have not discussed the geographic conundrum.”

      “Who wrote that?”

      “What?”

      “I… isn’t that a book?  I assumed it wasn’t a film, because I do tend to recognize the names of those.”

      “Isn’t what a book?”

      “The Geographic Conundrum.  Sounds like a spy thriller, but you’d know better than me.”

      “No, I am not speaking of a book.  I am speaking of the fact you live in London and I do not.”

      “Oh, that’s not a problem.  You’d be surprised how many people who live in London have a country home where their families live; how many commute back and forth every day or weekend at home and stay in the city during the work week.  Besides, I may ‘live’ in London, but I’m not here often, remember.  It’s not a big problem, Mycroft.”

      “Hmmmm… I suppose you have a point.  However, the extended absence agenda has now reared its ugly head.”

      “That’s something I can’t change, sorry to say.  Look at it this way, though… when I’m away, you don’t have to worry about me interrupting your writing time or otherwise being a distraction to your thinking or routine.  You’ll always know that while we enjoy, a lot, our time together, you’ll always have time that’s completely your own which is something I suspect you’ll actually enjoy.

      “That is… that is a… I had not considered before that particular perspective.”

      “Am I right about it?  I wager I am.”

      “Oh… let me think… I do prize my solitude.”

      “That you do.”

      “But I love you dearly.”

      “That you do.”

      “It does appear a paradox that I would crave both time with you and time without you.”

      “I’d say it’s normal for someone who more than a bit introverted and, before you ask, no, I’m not offended by it.  I know a few couples like that, actually.  Love each other madly, but structure their lives, and their houses, so that one or both of them has the solitude they need to keep on even keel.”

      “Intriguing.  This is all so… beyond my understanding and experience.”

      “As it should be!  It can’t be a new thing if you’re already an expert at it.  If I’m honest, it’s outside my experience, too, but I do have a _lot_ of experience walking into things without a clue as to what is going on and muddling my way through with some fair degree of success.”

      “I cannot claim to be a practiced muddler, however, I suppose it is a skill like others that improves with time and use.”

      “We’ll have you at the top of the muddle list in no time.  Speaking of, or along those lines, or while we’re on the topic… want to get back to writing?”

      “Ah, I see what you did with your nonsense.”

      “Time and use, I’ve a lifetime of that to my credit for nonsense.”

      “I do not doubt that in the slightest.  And… yes.  Yes, I was somewhat addled of thought before you phoned, but I have achieved a measure of clarity upon which I should likely capitalize.”

      “Then I’m going to say goodnight so you can get to it because I’m not a clingy bastard and am happy to use these few minutes before bed to play my guitar.”

      “Oh, that does sound restful.

      “Not the way I’m going to play it.  Any pigeons roosting in the rafters are going to be killed by the sonic blast.”

      “I am very happy you are not here, Gregory.”

      “Me too.  I’m not sure you’d survive it any better than a pigeon.  Talk to you tomorrow?”

      “Likely so.  I have made a point of notifying Mummy and Father that I will be resting during the day, however, I shall wake at my normal hour, so you may phone after that time.”

      “Sounds good.  Have fun writing, Mycroft.  Love you.”

      “I shall.  Have fun… sleeping, Gregory.  And, I love you, as well.”

Mycroft found himself wriggling happily in his chair and decided it was not unseemly or immature, so continued for a moment beyond the end of the call to simply enjoy the sensation of happiness that was prompting the wriggling.  Truly, could he have found a more stellar partner in life?  Someone who looked upon their relationship _as_ a partnership, where both parties had preferences, needs, perspectives and attributes and took pains to evaluate situations from such a collaborative perspective?  Gregory was well aware how cacophonous were his behaviors, at times, and how detrimental a continued onslaught of such things would be for the writing process.  Or basic mental processes of any form.  He adored the man and loved him truly, but yes… he would require breaks from Gregory’s energy and colorful chaos if he was to remain sane.

Fortunately, Gregory was perfectly capable of entertaining himself and would weather their separations with ease.  Hopefully, however, those separations would not be _too_ frequent or extended.  Gregory’s energy and color may become taxing, at times, but that price was miniscule compared to the joy and wonder it brought in return.

And now, he had a very interesting idea concerning the use of sound to potentially commit a murder.  If a pigeon could be felled by Gregory’s sonic assault, then a human might also prove susceptible.  What would be the forensic traces of such a crime?  At what distance could it successfully be perpetrated?  Yes, must make a few notes for research topics.  He could foist onto Father the actual research, for the man simply reveled in such things.  It, also, would give him something to occupy his time during the film tomorrow, since he would scarcely be paying attention, even though it was Gregory on the screen.  Further, _Sherlock_ might find the venture of interest and that would leave both Mummy and John fully unencumbered to enjoy their film-watching experience.

Good heavens… Gregory’s altruism was contagious!  What a delightful side-effect of their bond.  That could be their first topic of conversation tomorrow evening…

__________

Hmmm… no.  No g’way.  Pffffffffffbbbbbrrrrgggghhhhh… huh?   What?  Why was… oh no.  No.  NONONONONONONONONONONONO!!!!!

__________

What a glorious rest… Gregory was most correct that a portion of his personal discombobulation was the result of being entirely off his regular schedule.  Waking when there were only the vestiges of light lingering in the sky was far superior to being stabbed in the eyes by an uncivil sun that arrogantly believed it’s searing rays were a blessing to humanity.  Foul thing…

Despite the superciliousness of the sun, today seemed very round, which was rather unusual, as most days emitted a more angular quality, but there was nothing particularly distressing about temporal globularity.  He had ties with a round design and at least two china patterns that would coordinate very well with the day’s structure.  The day also felt very green, which was a highly successful supporter of roundness.  Except in the arena of peas, which were ghastly, however, no peas would be gracing his household so long as he lived, nullifying any potential round, green threat to his well-being.

And behold!  He had messages on his phone!  To which he could respond with lovely green bubbles.  Yes, the day was utterly a cohesive one and… oh no…

_ Run far run fast! _

Dear heavens…

_ It’s beyond horrible! _

Gregory!

_ Mum and Dad are here! _

What?

_ Got pulled out of bed by my heel and now my bum hurts! _

Was he serious?

_ They want to meet you!  Tonight! _

Uhhhh…

_ Fake your death! _

That was a touch hysterical.

_ Mum called you ‘that Holmes boy’  Situation critical! _

Perhaps not so hysterical.

_ Phone me ASAP! _

Must I?  I may have little time to spare, what with deciding upon a convincing and fittingly dramatic way to fake my death.

Oh my… my my my my my… what to do?  Gregory was colorful, but not histrionic.  Sherlock was the measuring standard for that and Gregory’s reactions, normally, fell low on that particular scale.  If he was this frantic, the situation must be dire.  Must think… since a parental visit had not been previously discussed, this was not a pre-announced event.  Had it been, he would have alerted will in advance.  This was a sneak attack and one that had his dear Gregory unraveling like a poorly-tied shoe.

And, now that he browsed his mental files… he had never inquired if Gregory had broached their romance with his parents!  Or the likelihood of their approval!  Were they currently storming his proverbial castle to signal their approval would _not_ be forthcoming?  Were they engaged in a campaign to dissuade him from their association?  Had the issue of grandchildren been raised?  This _was_ a disaster!

Mycroft nearly tripped over his own feet racing from his bedroom to yell for tea and find the one person who might be able to offer advice on this catastrophe.  Fortunately, she was chatting with the other person who was highly valuable for advice on things like parents.

      “Mummy!  Mrs. Hudson!”

Mycroft Holmes, racing into the kitchen, wild-eyed and sporting uncombed hair was a sight neither women had expected to see today, but taken in sum with the rest of their lives, it wasn’t enough… yet… to warrant getting out of their chairs which were supporting them comfortably as they gossiped.

      “Look at you, my handsome son.  Got a touch of devil-may-care tonight and it’s a good look for you.  Maybe without the tie, though, next time.”

Mycroft’s agonized groan preceded him dropping into a vacant chair, dropping his _head_ onto the table (cradled by his arm) and holding the other arm, the one with his mobile, into the air so the seriousness of the situation could be gleaned directly from the source.  Mrs. Hudson and Dolly shared a look that negotiated Dolly taking the mobile and Mrs. Hudson giving Mycroft small pats on his head with the bottom of her teacup, along with a few soothing there-there’s thrown in for good measure.

      “Martha!  Oh, it’s wonderful, it is.  Prepare for company, we’ve got the in-laws to host!”

Quickly exchanging jobs, Dolly took over the Mycroft-comforting and Mrs. Hudson took the mobile to read through the messages, smiling at both the idea of receiving Greg’s parents and the chance to watch her little Mycroft navigate such a touchy social situation.  Might be all hands on deck for this one and loads of supports built in to keep the poor lad’s head on his shoulders, but it’d be worth it, though.  Normally, she’d never advocate tossing Mycroft into the deep end for anything, but meeting the parents was the exception to the rule.  There was no way to do that gently, so best get it over and done with now, so he had less chance to fret himself into an early grave.

      “Good time for it, too, Doll, what with you and Bertie being here, so everyone can get a look at everyone else at one time.  Think we should tell Sherlock and John?”

Mycroft nearly fell over in his chair rearing back to yell NO!, but was waved off by his mother since he was officially no longer part of this conversation.

      “I’ll phone John and see what sort of mood the youngest is in.  He had a nice time at the cinema today, looking up all sorts of things with his dad on Bertie’s mobile, but it only takes a blink for his cock to twist in a knot and then he’s off his head and causing a mischief.  Do you think just a drinks thing or dinner?”

      “NEITHER!”

      “Hush, Mycroft, love.  Martha and I are talking.”

      “Let’s see if dinner works.  We’ve got some beautiful chops in and the vegetables at market today were particularly nice.  I don’t have time to do a fancy cake or the like, but I’ll phone the baker we use and have her send over something special.”

      “WITH STRYCHNINE!”

      “Mycroft, dear, your mother and I have a lot to do, so here… let me text your Greg…”

      “NO!”

Mycroft snatched for his phone, but Mrs. Hudson was both nimbler and wilier than was he so all the writer got for his trouble was a disappointing fistful of air.

      “There we go… dinner at eight, drinks at seven.  I’ll make you a little something to fill your stomach, Mr. Holmes, so it’s not rumbling while you wait to eat.”

      “You are _sacked_.”

      “Listen to you already practicing to be witty for your guests!  Let me find Molly so she can help me get started on things.  Dolly, you have him in hand?”

      “I’ll fob him off on Bertie and I’ll give you a hand, instead.  Mycroft, go help your dad.  He’s got something taken apart he found in a bin after our film and just finished giving it a bit of a clean.  I’ll make certain you both know when it’s time to comb your hair and shine your shoes.”

      “I am leaving the country.”

      “It takes ages and ages… and ages… to get you ready for that, so try a smarter threat next time, my sweet son.  Oh, let me give those cheeks a pinch.  You’re so cute when you pout.”

Mycroft suffered a motherly cheek pinching because he felt a masochistic need to suffer as deeply as possibly right now.  Not only would he be judged and weighed in the balance by Gregory’s parents, but his entire family would be here to act as evidence for his suitability as a suitor.  By night’s end, he would likely be a divorced man with naught but a bleak, frigid hole in his chest where once his heart beat strongly for his Gregory will have been wrested from his bosom by disapproving hands.  Woe and calamity!

      “Martha, I think we may need to give him a bit of help.”

As the women grabbed his chair and began dragging him out of the kitchen, Mycroft wondered if it was possible to hire someone to stand in for him tonight, as well as another house and family to support the illusion.  One could find anything on the Internet, so it was certainly worth a try.  Father might even assist.  He had rather a lot of thoughts about cocktail gatherings and dinners and they assured he was not a frequent guest at either of those tedious events.

Not that tonight would be tedious.  What was the best world to express the opposite of tedious in a profoundly negative manner.  Well, that was something else upon which Father could ruminate as they fiddled with his bin bounty…


	43. Chapter 43

It wasn’t an often-used protocol, but the Manage Mycroft #8 strategy was the only option to ensure the preparations for the evening could be accomplished in the very short window of time allotted before the arrival of the Lestrades.  Charles and Bertie were tasked with keeping Mycroft confined to one room at a time, occupied with whatever activity they could focus him on, with Molly, Mrs. Hudson and Dolly tackling the food preparation, dining room readying, drinks service stocking and other duties that were far easier by comparison.  Already, Mycroft had made four breaks for freedom to supervise the goings-on and bend them to his round-and-green manifesto, but this was one time his wishes had to come, if not second, at least _co_ -first with a host’s duty to provide an enjoyable experience for his guests.

The men also had the task of dressing and grooming the progressively unraveling Mycroft, who was filling his mind with disastrous potentials and devastating possibilities, most of which had zero chance of occurring, but were all serving to render him more and more functionless in terms of performing the basic activities associated with getting dressed or combing one’s hair.  The success or failure of which was very much on Dolly’s mind…

      “Well, Molly, dear?”

Who had been sent to surveil the ladies’ allies and report back on their status.

      “They got him shaved and Mr. Holmes the Elder is currently listening to Mr. Holmes the Younger’s grim fantasies for how tonight’s going to go, using logic to karate chop each of them in order, while Charles is using the distraction to get Mr. Holmes the Younger’s kit on with a minimum of fuss.  There’s still _some_ fuss… the socks issue nearly had Mr. Holmes the Younger leaping through the window, not an open one, mind you, but all in all it’s going very well!”

      “My Bertie knows his son, that’s for certain.  Let him roll through a tidy list – one item, one response – and it does help calm poor Mycroft down.  I’m tits for that because I do get a touch talkative at times, so it’s really more of a Bertie thing, but whatever works works!  Alright, they’ve got Mycroft managed… Martha where are _we_?”

      “Nearly finished, I think.  Except for the bits that can’t be done until the last moment, but that’s always the case.  We’ve got dinner sorted, along with alternatives, as necessary, for Mr. Holmes or, I suppose, the Lestrades if they’re fussy, the cake arrived and looks positively scrummy, the table’s gorgeous, but not regal so it looks like we’re putting on airs, and there’s enough good spirits to stock the local pub, so we can get things off on a good foot with a few glasses of something welcoming.  Molly, can you think of anything we missed?”

      “Hmmmm… ooh!  Seating arrangements.  That might be tricky with _both_ Mr. Holmes the Youngers at table.”

      “Glory, Martha, she’s right.  I’ll have a word with him beforehand, but I think we all know that Sherlock turns into a three-year-old when his brother is nearby.  Best put him between John and Greg.  John’s good for the under-the-table punch and Greg’s shown a fair amount of talent for tamping down Sherlock’s nonsense.  Normally, I’d put him between Bertie and me, but we’ve got work to do!  Have to sell our Mycroft as a smart and proper match for Greg!  Of course, Bertie will likely do that as soon as they walk though the door.  One sentence and a chart that he’s probably working on while distracting Mycroft from the color of his underpants, but that’s just his way and not everybody’s way so I think a touch more is going to be needed, but that’s why I’m on the case, too!  Oh, I have to see what we’ve got for photos.  Mums adore photos, even if the baby is middle-aged, so I should have a supply of those ready and waiting.”

      “And don’t forget, Mrs. Holmes, you’re a real admirer of Mr. Lestrade’s films, so you can talk about that and impress them with how much you know.  Every parent I know gets very puffed up when you compliment their kids.”

      “Yes!  Molly, you’re a genius.   I can talk about his films for days!  Not about how’s he’s a sexy beast with an arse you want to take a bite out of, because I don’t think that would set the right tone, but the rest of it is as open as a betting shop during the World Cup!   John can help there, too, since he’s a genuine admirer of Greg’s work and can speak very knowledgeably on the subject without the tiniest mention of succulent bums.  Right, then… best get myself sorted.  Can’t look a fright!  That’s not respectful to our guests and Mycroft would pitch right over the edge if I didn’t put an effort into looking like a successful writer’s mum.  Not that I have any idea what that’s supposed to look like, but you can be certain Mycroft does and he’ll give me the what for it I don’t live up to it!”

Dolly clapped her hands together then started upstairs to dress for dinner, leaving Mrs. Hudson and Molly to nod knowingly at how any perturbation was likely to spin their Mr. Holmes into a tizzy, especially since he was already would up tighter than a drum.  So, on their part, very quiet, efficient dinner service, inspecting everything before it went out for potential explosive elements and keeping an eye on things to remove any _unanticipated_ explosive points as soon as they saw the fuse ignite and start burning its way towards the powder keg.

Charles was so, so lucky at times.  Of course, he was having to physically dress Mr. Holmes and, very likely, moderate any arguments between the _two_ Mr. Holmes, so perhaps he wasn’t quite as lucky as they’d first thought…

__________

      “Well… here we are.”

Greg knew checking for sweat stains under his arms would earn him a shocked gasp and stern glare from his mother, so he tried the ‘wriggle the arms to see if I can feel moisture there’ maneuver instead.

      “Figured that, son, what with the car having stopped.  In front of a house.”

      “Thanks, Dad.  Just… trying to be… confirmatory.”

      “Well, don’t waste words when you don’t have to.”

      “No waste… got it.  What… what do you think?”

      “About what?”

      “Mycroft’s house.”

Which, hopefully, was tasteful and sedate enough that his parents couldn’t find fault.  Though they’d try!

      “Bit smaller than I imagined.”

And the fault is found!

      “If it was a massive thing, you’d complain about it being too big.”

      “Being smaller than I imagined isn’t a complaint, daft boy.  Statement of fact, nothing more.  Thought a famous writer would have a larger house, that’s all.”

On reflection, for his father, that actually _did_ count as a neutral statement, so the slate had to be wiped clean.  Not setting down the chalk, though, because it’d be pressed into service soon enough.

      “He’s got a much larger home in the country.  This is just his London digs and he’s not in the city often, so no reason for something bigger.”

The ‘hmph’ from his dad was hard to interpret but it might, just might, have been the rare George Lestrade stamp of approval.

      “Could the man not have something in the way of a flower pot or window box to break up the… sterility?”

And Mum dashes forth to get that first point on the finding fault slate!  The crowd goes wild.

      “Again, Mum, he’s rarely here, so he’d have to pay someone just to keep an eye on the flowers, which would be a fairly silly waste of money, don’t you think?”

The high-pitched ‘hnnh’ from his mother was hard to interpret but it might, just might, indicate he’d made a valid point.  The sterility bit still stood, though, so only half the mark could be erased from the slate.  But…

      “And you can’t blame him for any sterility because, in case you didn’t notice, all the houses here look very much alike oh, like it was planned that way, so I suspect a body coming in and painting the house purple and putting a bouncy castle on the pavement might be looked upon a bit poorly by the neighbors.”

This ‘hmph’ was very much like his dad’s and Greg awarded _himself_ a point for dismantling his mother’s complaint.  She was very much opposed to anyone disrupting the atmosphere and appearance of their neighborhood, now and when he was young, so legs kicked out right from under her.  Greg Lestrade’s cheating-at-football skill shines forth!

      “How about we actually get out of the car and you two can get a better look at the house, both inside and outside, and maybe have a chance to meet the people you’re actually here to meet.  This _was_ your idea, remember?”

      “We’re not senile, son.”

      “I wonder sometimes, dad.”

      “Pfft.  If we were senile, we’d have missed that business of yours on the telly, now wouldn’t we?”

No, it had not factored in his analysis that there might be _another_ group of people, or pair, in this case, who might correctly interpret his flourishy love confession.  Pitiful mistake.  In some ways, this was just deserts, but in other ways it sucked balls, so it sort of balanced out.

      “That’s only because you had insider information.  Like insider trading, I’m fairly certain that’s illegal.”

      “Gregory Lestrade.  If you are going to be a silly boy all night…”

      “I am, mum.  I am going to silly the hell out of the night and into tomorrow, too.  So, let’s get on with it, shall we?”

Greg hopped out of the car, which was his sedate and nicely inconspicuous Mercedes that had only earned his parent’s slight disapproval when he bought it because he’d not spent long enough looking for a better price, and ran around to open his mother’s door and wait for her to exit.

      “Is it safe to leave your car here?”

The likelihood that the entire Metropolitan Police Service would be mobilized if someone stole the morning paper from one of these stoops was nearly 100%, but anything to please a mother…

      “Yes, it’s very safe to leave the car here, but I’ll ask Mycroft’s driver to move it if that makes you feel better.”

      “A driver?  Hmmmm…”

      “Mycroft doesn’t drive, so he actually needs a driver, especially when he’s at his usual home.”

      “Doesn’t drive?  Who doesn’t drive these days?”

Someone who handles a golf cart like it was a steroid-raging Sherman tank.

      “Are you going to criticize everything about Mycroft and his house?  If so, I can do that for you so you and dad can take a cab home and watch a bit of telly.  You’ve already got all the criticisms of _my_ house off your plate, so you can just relax, have a glass of wine and enjoy yourself.”

      “George, why is our son being so combative tonight?  All I did was ask a simple question and off he goes.”

      “No idea, Patricia.  Probably his bowels.  Lad eats nothing but rubbish.”

      “True.”

Greg’s anguished whine was lost on his parents, since they’d heard it too many times for it to register anymore, but it gave him something to do as they walked to the door for him to ring the bell.

      “Good evening.  Mr. Holmes is expecting you.”

Greg shot a look at Charles, who was not a butler, but the driver’s placid smile handily passed along the message that Mycroft, or a self-appointed representative, decided it might be a nice touch to give the household something other than its normal Addams Family presentation, though the subject of Lurch _had_ been broached and the decision made that Charles was neither tall enough nor possessed of deep enough voice to diminish their intentions.

      “Good evening, Charles.  Ummm… thanks.  Mum, Dad, after you?”

A quick ‘can you put my car somewhere or sell it or I don’t care anymore please help me,’ ‘of course, sir, but suitors must save themselves’ and passing over of keys occurred quickly and quietly, followed by a ‘they’re in the sitting room, sir, along with copious amounts of alcohol’ before Charles vanished to relocate Greg’s car, which he was disappointed to see wasn’t Horse.  He dearly wanted a go behind the wheel of that venerable automotive delight.

      “See, Mum?  Not sterile in the least.  Mycroft’s house is very nice, I think.  Properly elegant, but not ostentatious or fussy.  Come on, we’ve got drinks waiting.”

Large ones, hopefully.  But, his parents hadn’t made comment about the entrance way and still weren’t making comment as he walked them towards the sitting room, where the sound of voices could be heard, so fingers crossed this would go well.  Or, if not well, at least not so badly that Charles’s next duty was tossing them out on their ear.

      “There they are!  Oh, Greg… look at you, always so handsome.  Well, introduce us!  We’re so happy to meet your family.  Been aflutter about since we got your message!”

Thank you, Dolly, for just crashing right through the need for any graveside-somber formal introductions and looking genuinely pleased to see us.

      “Utterly untrue.  I did not flutter in the slightest.”

And, thank _you_ , Sherlock for being the expected arse I know you to be, but might as well get it out there early so we can move on to other things.

      “That’s because you weren’t here when we got the messages, silly bunny.  Now, be a good boy and think about things before you do all that wrist flicking and naysaying.  Go on, Greg dear… introductions?”

Greg shot a look at Mycroft who looked back with a mixture of fear, shock, defeat and hope, and recognized quickly that he didn’t need to be saved, he needed to _do_ the saving and failure was not an option.

      “My pleasure!  Mrs. Dorothy Holmes, Mr. Albert Holmes, may I present my parents, George and Patricia Lestrade.”

      “Dolly and Bertie, dear.  We’re all friends here!  And maybe more than friends soon enough, am I right?”

More thanks to you, Dolly, for just lobbing that grenade right into the tent, and with a big wink, so none of us could escape alive.

      “Well, that’s certainly a topic for… yeah.  And a good one, at that!  So, how about a drink?”

Greg smiled his panicked smile at Mycroft who was looking more and more like a deer in the headlights, which made Greg reconsider even saying his name aloud so, perhaps, his parents would think Mycroft was a servant or family friend and then he could slip John fifty quid to pretend to be Mycroft Holmes for the night.  And another fifty to Sherlock not to rumble their little ruse.  But… Charles was right.  Suitors had to fend for themselves, so off comes the shirt, on goes the snarl and action hero Greg Lestrade leaps into the fray, guns blazing and knives flashing.

      “I’ll even act as bartender if Mycroft is willing to help me, so I don’t make a mess of things.”

Maybe it was whisky blazing and ice cubes flashing, but he could still pretend to be shirtless with makeup having dabbed on a bit of this and that to cover the occasional sunspot.

      “That’s your Mycroft, is he, son.  Looks like a proper writer, I suppose.  House aside.”

Oh, dad.  You’re you.  That’s about all I can say at this point.  And look, Dolly’s got on a big smile.  This should be fun.

      “Doesn’t he?  Mycroft, dear, stand straight and look as writery as you can for George.  He gets it from his dad, you know, that bookish look.  Bertie’s a librarian and doesn’t he look like one?  Sort of like how pets and their owners look alike, I say.  Don’t see how it can be genetics, since people aren’t going about having a cuddle with a stack of books or their dog.  Well, not decent people, that is, but the worlds full of all sorts, so you never know.”

Ok, not quite the sort of fun he’d expected, so quickly link pinkies since Mycroft looked about two seconds from exploding into forty billion pieces.  And Dad was doing his scowl-and-nod.  Will the revelry never cease?

      “Quite right.  World’s filled with all sorts, absolutely beggars belief what they get up to these days.  You’ve got the right end of the stick about the other bit, too.  My cousin’s a butcher.  Looks the part, head to toe.  People stop him on the street to check the current pork prices.  Never met him before in their lives!  And he certainly isn’t the type to take a sow into his bed.  Not counting his wife, that is.  Dreadful woman.  Couldn’t _cook_ a piece of pork, either, not to save her life.”

Revelry with bells on!  Oh death, what the fuck is keeping you, you lazy sod…

      “Ooh, too dry, I wager.  Like something you’d tie to your foot and walk on because it’s like the sole of a shoe.”

      “Nearly broke a tooth trying to chew a sausage she fried.  How can you muck up a sausage?  Greg can even fry a sausage and the lad thinks his stovetop is some piece of modern sculpture that’ll get his hand slapped if he touches.”

      “Pity, just a pity, because there’s nothing better than a nice sausage when you’ve the mood for it.”

      “Absolutely.  Rather like a good pie.”

      “Does your local do a nice one, love?”

Greg blinked a few times and smacked his head to make certain he wasn’t actually hallucinating, but, in fairness, the conversation was plunging quickly into food, which was one of his dad’s favorite topics of discussion, especially when he was _eating_ the food in question, so… hurray?

      “Mycroft, you are not performing your duties as host.  Solicit information on drink preferences and begin their preparation.”

      “Y… yes.  Yes, of course, Father.”

      “How about I help with that?”

John had been very content to sit back and watch the action, but decided that Mycroft could use a little assistance at the moment, as he didn’t seem very able to actually move, let alone hoist a decanter of spirits.  Which was understandable, since _he’d_ felt a bit like that the first time he met Sherlock’s parents.  Who seemed… well, if you swapped genders they’d be a good physical match for the Lestrades.  Greg’s dad was a shortish, stoutish fellow who didn’t seem to mince words and had firm, though slightly potty, ideas about things.  Greg’s mum was tall and thin as a pencil, with the sort of bob cut to her hair that made him think of the flower-show chairwoman who’d run him out of the peony display when he was six years old.  Admittedly, he’d been eating them, but it was still a traumatic experience.  Oh god, she was talking to him…

      “You may begin with me, young man.  Vodka, if you have it.  And none of that infused nonsense the young people fancy.”

John smiled happily, since nothing about peony’s were involved and hustled away to take other orders while Bertie tapped his nose a moment, while he turned over a thought in his head.

      “Infused vodka’s history traces to the 17th century, so it cannot be attributed solely to the tastes of the modern generation.”

A thought which Greg prepared to leap in and diffuse as his mother typically responded poorly to being corrected by strangers.  Even if her son was in love with their son and she was standing in their home with dinner on the way.

      “Good heavens, I would have believed something so atrocious would have met with an evolutionary attenuation by this point but, as with many things, ghastly endures.”

That wasn’t responding poorly.  That was… ok?  At least Bertie seemed alright with it, so saving the leaping in for a more red-alert situation.

      “I have not performed the appropriate analysis, however, that supposition _would_ be supported by the endurance of certain television programs and musical groups.”

      “The very reason I have nearly worked my fingers to the bone writing to the BBC!  Utter rubbish.  I do not pay my television license simply to have my intelligence insulted by drivel.”

      “I, also, communicate to them my displeasure at the state of their programming, both for television and radio.  There is an intellectual and cultural standard to be maintained and that has suffered greatly, of late, in their broadcasting choices.  I would claim a similar erosion of standards in the literary world, however, the quality of written output has always varied wildly throughout time.  I wrote a monograph, in fact, on the continued prevalence of the so-called pulp fiction writers and their subsequent works.  My conclusion was that the lack of intellectual merit of the works was offset, somewhat, by their ability to promote reading in certain demographic groups, therefore, they could not be dismissed out of hand.”

      “Heavens knows we need more a more literate public.  The dullards that abound is positively galling.  Your opinion on the role of audiobooks in promoting literacy?”

      “An interesting question and one I have grappled with for some time…”

Greg pinched himself this time and truly began to wonder if it was still morning, he was still in bed and his mother dragging him out by his heel was just a dream, as was Anderson’s hectic rescheduling of a couple of interviews so he could take his parents to lunch today as penalty for being slothful and still in bed when they arrived.

      “I am bored...”

Now Greg was leaping out of his shoes since Sherlock had decided to wait to make his announcement until he was directly behind the pinkie-linked pair and say it directly in their ears.

      “… I only agreed to attend this evening because of the entertainment potential of watching Mycroft dissolve into primordial soup.  However, he has, apparently, chosen to express his mental breakdown by becoming what amounts to a taxidermist’s attempt to stuff and mount a human.  There is little entertainment to be found in a stuffed grouse.”

      “Then go home, you bastard.”

      “No.  I am hungry, and John will surely refuse to stop and buy food if we leave now.”

      “Wonderful.  Then could you at least pay for the free food by being nice to your brother?”

      “Is that a joke?”

      “Apparently.  I’ll try again.  Could you, at least, go to the kitchen, because I know Mrs. Hudson would have a few trays of nibbles made for the cocktail hour, and bring them out here?  That way, you can get some food now and be nice to your brother all in one go.”

      “Hmmmm… I suppose I could do that.”

      “Thank… wait.  This is a trap, isn’t it?”

      “I… no.”

      “Just tell me now and spare yourself a pounding later.”

      “I am not a waiter.”

      “Keep going.”

      “I, therefore, would expect payment for acting as one for Mycroft’s ridiculous soiree.”

      “How much?”

      “I require more Gentian Violet and Methylene Blue.”

      “That didn’t answer my question.”

      “Fifty pounds.”

      “Five.”

      “Forty-nine pounds.”

      “Six.”

      “You are a terrible negotiator.”

      “No, I’m an excellent one.  Ten quid and not a farthing more.”

      “Very well.  However, I also expect a similar wage for John’s services.”

      “We can talk about that later after I see how much of Mycroft’s quality alcohol he quaffs while he’s serving it.”

      “Dastardly!  But, I am somewhat impressed that you were able to mount a credible argument, so I agree to postpone further negotiations until after the cake.”

      “We have cake?”

      “Yes.  I have already sampled it and can attest that it is… very good.”

      “You sampled it.  The lift it up and dig about underneath or run your finger through the icing then smooth it out technique?”

      “There is no icing, it is fondant.  However, a sufficiently thin and taut wire can slice through it cleanly to cut a narrow slice that a pressing together of the cut ends hides successfully.”

      “Good to know.  Off with you, then, and bring the starters while I… your brother.”

Sherlock started to reply, then opted to avoid the situation and simply whirl around to make his exit.  Even _he_ could see that Mycroft needed a soothing word or moment set aside to realign his fractured brain.  Though, all in all, this initial portion of evening could have gone much worse.  Apparently, Lestrade’s parents were as mind-numbingly bothersome as his own and this was creating an opposite-charge attraction to leave others, most importantly, him, unaffected by their tedium.  That could prove useful, as could Lestrade’s infusion of cash.  Mycroft would certainly be too addled to write a cheque and it was below even his standards of conduct to pickpocket his brother in this sorry, sorry state…

While Sherlock made his noble decision, Greg gently pulled Mycroft back away from the parent pairs and gave his pinkie a squeeze.  His poor writer had yet to even say hello and Sherlock’s stuffed grouse nonsense wasn’t looking terribly loony at the moment.

      “How are you, Mycroft?”

And I’ll repeat that a couple of times until you realize I’m actually speaking to you.

      “I… confused.”

      “Ok.  Could you elaborate on what it is you’re confused about?”

      “I… no.”

      “That’s fine.  It’s that way, on occasion.  Is it… did my parents upset you?  They’re a bit… or a lot… gruff at times and that can be upsetting if you aren’t used to it.”

      “No.  Not…”

      “Yeah?”

      “Why are they talking to Mummy and Father?”

      “Because that’s what you do at these things, I suppose.  Or, because they about the same age and have some things in common.”

      “Nobody has things in common with Mummy and Father.”

      “That’s not true.  You dad has a few mates and your mum… she seems very much the social butterfly.”

      “Not with normal people.”

      “Uh… why would you think my parents are normal.”

Mycroft lifted a shaky finger and pointed it at Greg’s face, which gained him a small chuckle and kiss on said finger from the target of the pointing.

      “I’m rather far from normal, if you think about it.  But, to be fair, strip away the celebrity and I consider myself a fairly standard fellow.  Maybe it’s because they’re so… them… that my rebellion was to be common and generally likeable.  And it stuck!”

      “They are chatting.”

Said like Mycroft was deep in a photographer’s blind, watching a troupe of monkeys interact.

      “That they are, which I do admit has me a bit perplexed since… since mum and dad can be a handful.  Decent, really, and caring under that down-the-nose derision that seems their norm, but…”

      “They are Sherlock, then.”

      “Oh.  Oh, didn’t think about it that way, maybe because they don’t have quite the vocabulary, but yeah, that’s not a bad comparison.  They’re that couple on the street the kids know not to play on their lawn, but can be counted on to buy this or that or contribute for whatever fundraiser the school or scout group is having.  Seems like they speak a common language with your parents, though.  Unexpected but… isn’t that a good thing?”

      “You were terrified about tonight.”

      “Uh… more panicked and frantic than terrified, but yeah, I was.  I’d thought that once I got back from Morocco, we’d have a chance to meet them, maybe plan something ahead of time here in London, so you and I could ease into it and I could give you a few ideas about what to expect and how to manage their… themness.”

      “I _still_ do not know what to expect.”

      “Well… this, I guess.  They’re not outwardly satisfied with anything, not ones to be approving and positive…”

      “Oh dear… they will not find me, at all, acceptable, will they?  I tried, Gregory, I truly did. Today is a green day, but I agreed with Father to wear navy because green might appear too… vernal for this time of year.  They shall think me priggish and dour, will they not?  Oh, I knew it was a green day…”

Greg had no idea how to respond to any of that besides raising their hands to kiss Mycroft’s knuckles, then gain Mycroft’s attention so it wasn’t a surprise when he laid a small peck on his lips.

      “I doubt they’ll think that.  You look very stylish and extremely handsome, too.  Right now, the worst, the absolute worst, they might say is that you’re too quiet because you’ve only said about three words so far, but the night’s still young, so there’s loads of time to change that.”

      “What should I say?”

      “Uh… I guess it depends on what we’re talking about at the moment.”

      “We are talking about my not talking and what I should do to remedy that.”

      “I mean when you’re talking to people other than me.”

      “Oh, I see.”

      “You’re a smart, interesting, accomplished man, Mycroft and I know you can be charming and witty when you want to be, so I’m worried in the slightest.  I’m more worried about _me_ because I can get a bit frazzled trying to smooth over whatever carnage they’ve left behind and usually have a lot of apologies to make afterwards, not only for them but for me, too.  So, how about we make a deal?  I’ll give you a little nudge when it seems a good time to dive in to be charming and witty and you give me a little nudge when I’m getting snappish or rude.”

      “An interesting proposition.”

      “One you’ll accept?”

      “I… yes.  Yes, I shall.  It is my duty to see that you do not disgrace yourself and it would be my own disgrace to shirk that duty now.”

His Mycroft was _adorable_ when he was being dramatic and formal.

      “Alright, then.  And perfect timing, too… here’s John with our drinks.”

      “Two whiskies, gentlemen.  Greg, did you know that it’s not common knowledge a short bloke like me can serve in the military?  Now you do and so do I.”

      “Oh god… mum or dad?”

      “Your dad.  But, he did thank me for my service before your mum chided my posture.”

      “Well… that all sounds normal.”

      “Reminds me of my own parents, actually.  My time-tested technique - smile and remember to password protect their laptop and phones after every visit.  Makes me feel worlds better”

      “You’re a man after my own heart, John.”

      “Your wallet, too.  Sherlock told me tonight’s going to see our rent paid for the month.”

      “Only if he puts on a maid’s uniform and gives Molly the night off from serving dinner.”

      “He’s worn disguises before.  Lots of them.  Be careful about devil’s bargains.”

      “I will pay your month’s rent _and_ buy flowers for your landlady if you get him in a maid’s uniform with a skirt so short his bum peeks out when he leans over to collect the plates.”

      “Any fancy dress shops open this late, do you think?”

      “Ask Mycroft’s dad to research it.  Mum seems to be warming to him, so they can do it together.  Joint projects make for a happy family, right?”

      “Oh good, the oldsters looking for a sexy maid costume in Sherlock’s size to be delivered post haste.  Wagers, everyone?”

Mycroft felt slightly more confused now than he did before but, also, strangely more relaxed.  Gregory and John were… as always.  Sherlock was… as typical.  Mummy and Father were no more or less headache-inducing than normal, and Gregory’s parents were no more or less headache-inducing, apparently, than were Mummy and Father.  Everything was disordered and unsteady, however… it was also very familiar and… manageable.

      “Oh, John is gone.”

      “You were having a think, so I thought it best not to disturb you to point that out.”

      “Thank you.  Gregory?”

      “Yeah?”

      “It will be alight?”

Greg smiled warmly and swung their hands a few times to give his Mycroft a little extra reassurance.

      “I promise.  And, if mum or dad misbehaves too badly, I’ll put my boot up their backsides and kick them right out the door.”

      “That has some chance of success with your mother for she is rather lean, however, I doubt it would be an effective strategy against for your father due to his sturdier build.”

      “You’ll have to help me, then.”

      “I have never booted a backside.”

      “It’s easy, you’ll learn.”

      “Oh… can that be considered a self-defense skill?”

_ Adorable _ .

      “Yes, yes it can.”

      “I have been hoping to research those for my writing.  It struck me that the victims in my books are overly passive.  One would expect _some_ of them to possess a measure of self-defense capability.”

      “I’ll happily give you a booting lesson, but I can also, if you like, introduce you to people who know a great deal about that sort of thing.  I meet a lot of them in my job and they’re happy to share what they know, at least, a few moves that the average man or woman can do when they’re in a tight spot.  How does that sound?”

      “Extremely helpful.  Thank you, Gregory.  I will remember to eat a hearty breakfast before my lesson.  I suspect such a thing is highly energy intensive.”

If Anthea wasn’t there to take video, Greg vowed he would do it himself.  Fuck that, he’d slip one of the cameramen a few quid to get some HD footage of that lesson if it was possible.  Of course, he’d have a little word with the stuntman or martial arts specialist beforehand about the person they were working with, but… Mycroft would definitely get his lesson.  With copies of the footage hand-delivered to Dolly not long after it was over because she’d have his head on a platter if he made her wait for it…


	44. Chapter 44

Greg was finding himself in the highly unusual position of promoting someone else at a party, when it was usually him and Anderson both trying to promote _his_ plumped arse and promote it as grandly as they could.  This time, however, he was acting as Mycroft’s PR man and that wasn’t an easy task, despite his writer’s countless wonderful qualities, because Mycroft appeared to have decided that the adage ‘better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak and to remove all doubt’ was the best way to navigate the evening.  If chitchat was riches, Mycroft Holmes would be living life on the lean side.

      “How you doing, love?”

      “I… acceptable, on balance.”

      “That’s good… enough.  Party seems to be going well, overall.  Frankly, it’s a rare thing I see Mum and Dad actually being a part of the discussion and not barging into other people’s conversations to drop their opinions on the poor souls’ heads.”

      “Neither Mummy nor Father appear to be displeased, that is certainly the case, though Mummy is rarely displeased in a situation where she can talk to her heart’s desire.  Father is the one more apt to demonstrate unhappiness with a conversational situation, but your mother seems to have a sufficiently focused and efficient communication method that he is content.”

Now, if his Mycroft could only string together that many words when speaking to anyone else here, the celestial spheres would start humming a merry tune and all would be right in the universe.  Oh well, keep jollying him along and maybe something would linger if someone else asked him a question.

      “Sherlock’s being well-behaved, too.  I think Mrs. Hudson slipped something into the starters to quiet his mood.”

      “It would not be a unique occurrence.”

      “Really?  Well, can’t say she’s not resourceful.  And speaking of…”

Greg smiled at the housekeeper, who was signaling them from her vantage point out of sight of the rest of the party and making clear signs that dinner was ready.  Greg gave her a quick ‘got it’ nod and held a silent discussion with Mycroft that centered on Mycroft being the official host tonight, so it was his duty to announce dinner, despite that being something Mycroft was not particularly happy to do a bustling room of talkative people.  Along with a bit of additional, albeit gentle, nudging, Greg got the ball rolling by loudly clearing his throat to bust through the talkativeness and give his Mycroft a quiet room to address.

      “I… dinner is served.  If you… let us repair to the dining room, shall we?”

Greg gave Mycroft a pinkie squeeze for a job well done, as it got Dolly in motion, followed closely by the rest of the parental units towards the nicely turned-out table where Dolly took the role of traffic warden guiding people to their assigned seats.  Sherlock had been the obvious fly in the quiet-dinner ointment that made strategic placement necessary but, Greg quickly realized another reason, after running his eye over the table, and, unhappily, saw that his father had noticed, as well.

      “What going on there?  Piling up the extra china and such to donate to a jumble sale?”

At the head of the table, where the head of the household, namely Mycroft, would sit was Mycroft’s typically-expanded setting that gave him multiple choices for stemware, flatware and condiment sets so the arrival of any hue of wine, shape of food or who knows what might render one or more of the available options unacceptable for his dining pleasure.

      “No, Dad, that’s Mycroft’s seat, and it’s set exactly the way I’d expect it.”

      “Lad going to grow another few sets of arms to use all of that during the meal.  Only has one mouth, that I can see, or will he grow another those, too?”

Mycroft’s combination of a soft gasp and pained moan shot to Greg’s heart and he steeled his eyes at his father in a manner that was a bit of a surprise to both of the older and younger Lestrade men.

      “If anyone would like to grow another mouth it’d be you, you old duffer, so you could have twice the dinner at one sitting.”

      “That’s… well, fair point, that is.  Who wouldn’t want the chance to have a good piece of fish in one mouth and a few chips in the other?  Damned efficient, I’d say.  Have your meal in half the time, so there’s more for something else in your day!”

      “Does your model postulate separate digestive systems or a single one connected to each esophagus?”

While Bertie distracted his father with science, Greg nodded the visibly upset Mycroft towards his seat and took the one next to him, not waiting for the women to sit first because this was one time etiquette could be hanged.

      “What?  Oh… oh, never thought about it.  I’d say one set of guts would do.  It’s all stretchy in there, so it shouldn’t be a bother to handle the extra.  Not sure what the ladies would have to say about the extra lipstick and such, those that still bother to wear it.  Maybe they could do two colors at once, though, and save all the dithering and foolishness about which to paint on that day.  Just dab on a bit of red and be done with it!  Good enough for my mother, god rest her soul.  None of this silliness you see today.  Blue!  Saw some bird with blue on her lips just this week.  What’s that all about, I ask you?  Nonsense, utter nonsense.”

Distraction accomplished!  Greg certainly hadn’t counted on the Holmes males’ ability to fall into the Pit of Ponderous Ponderings to be the life raft of the moment, or the evening, but it certainly seemed to be working on his parents.  Now that he thought about it, though, tossing out fresh things for them to complain about was a smart strategy if you had other areas you wanted to remain as untouched as possible.

      “Was it a glittery blue, George dear?  I had some glittery blue lipstick when I was a girl.  Had _lots_ of colors for lipstick and eye makeup and clothes.  It was the time, you know.  Used to drive Bertie batty when we’d go out and I’d wear something fab and colorful.  Of course, he didn’t mind me wearing skirts so short they were practically illegal and that went with the look, color and all, so his complaints weren’t _too_ loud.”

      “If you weren’t to wear trousers, Dorothy, then a shorter skirt was more efficient for the various activities in which we were generally engaged.”

      “Like snogging.”

      “False.  The length of a skirt is unrelated to the process of kissing.”

      “It’s related to how many kisses you get, though.  Shorter skirts mean more kisses.”

      “Also false.  No… I must retract the definitive false, for I cannot make an informed statement on that topic given I have no supportive data for _any_ relevant position.”

      “Then I win.”

      “I think not.”

      “Patty, you tell my husband.  If they can’t give you a why, you win, don’t you?”

Greg pulled Sherlock down into the seat next to him because the ensuing conversation had the detective unsure whether anyone besides the two new lovebirds were actually going to sit to eat or if dinner was now a mill-about-with-small-plates cocktail party sort of event.  With Sherlock down, John quickly followed and that acted as a spark for the older set to take seats of their own.

      “Are you going to chatter throughout the entirety of dinner, Mummy, or will you pause now and again to eat the dinner you are served?”

      “Oh, Sherlock.  If I had those two mouths George was talking about, I could do both and easily, too!  There’s another practical use right there – have a nice meal and not have to wait until you chew through the mutton to share something funny!”

Seeing Sherlock preparing a particularly- Sherlockian rebuttal, John took a roll from the bread basket, cut it, added butter, drew over Sherlock’s hand, placed the buttered roll in said hand, then pushed the whole business upwards towards Sherlock’s mouth, holding it in place until Sherlock took a bite to keep his one mouth from talking since it now actively pressed into service with a completely different task.  And, here came Molly and Mrs. Hudson with the soup to further keep his partner’s mouth occupied.  Didn’t look like it was going to occupy Greg’s mum, though, who seemed ready to keep the conversation flowing.  John had to wonder if part of the reason Greg was out of the country so often was to put some distance between himself and the people who ushered him into this world.

      “Excellent.  Starting a meal with a proper bowl of soup.  Mycroft, you’ve been quiet.  Tell us about yourself.”

One small hitch in having Mycroft as the man in his life, Greg bemoaned, was that the little helps like using his foot to rub Mycroft’s ankle for support was rather out of the question and his love was going to have to walk this tightrope on his own.  Without a net.

      “I… I am a writer.”

      “Good heavens, boy, I know that.  Let’s hear the rest.”

      “R… rest?”

      “Yes!  Now, get on with it.”

      “Oh… well… I…”

Greg’s cough wasn’t terribly effective at hiding the ‘charity!’ or ‘garden!’ that he tried to mask by the sound, but, at least, Mycroft didn’t ask him to repeat any of it and completely undo his emergency effort.

      “Yes, well… I do oversee a literacy initiative that has been most successful in its objectives.  Gregory has ag… agreed to be my spokesperson.”

      “That’s right, Mum.  I’ve already met with a few groups, like the library people and did a Story Day event a primary school.  Lots of good work being done and it’s all Mycroft’s baby.”

His mother’s noncommittal ‘I see’ had Greg making a quick ‘keep going’ motion at Mycroft when his mother’s attention was drawn back to her soup.

      “It is a… noted charity, Mrs. Lestrade.  Our accomplishments are listed clearly on our website.  Father, could you share the address?”

A nod was Mycroft’s answer from his father, which didn’t really further the conversation and left him, again, adrift.  Fortunately, he had allies to leap in when necessary, such as John.

      “You should definitely make the trip to see Mycroft’s house, too, Mrs. Lestrade.  It’s an amazing thing; seems to be taken right out of a gothic novel.  Got a poison garden, a crypt and loads of gorgeous features that make it worthwhile to visit.”

      “Not exactly a cheery place, from the sound of it.”

      “Cheery can be a dime a dozen, but for something uniquely beautiful like that?  Mycroft is a very lucky man.”

Greg smirked a bit at the slight edge to John’s tone, reassured that this particular ally wasn’t shy about going on the offensive when necessary.

      “If you say so.”

And there was his mother’s clipped tone of disapproval leaping out to rattle its saber at John’s Tone with Edge.  Saber rattling, however, was, by far, not the worst her tone could do, so the situation held at Status Orange and wouldn’t be upgraded to Condition Red.  Yet.  Dad was gearing up for another throw and had soup-fortification to make it an energetic one, however, so standing by with bandages and med kit at the ready.

      “Sounds like a haunted house, to me.  Is that what all the extra whatnot is for down there?  Brought some ghosts along and they like to sit and enjoy a spot of dinner now and again?”

 Mycroft’s index finger began touching each of the items at his place setting and cycled through the lot three times before stopping.  Then repeated the whole ritual two more times for a total of three rounds of three.

      “What’s _that_ all about now?  Polishing things?  Better have a word with your staff if that’s the case.”

      “Everything’s nicely polished, Dad, as you can very well see from the fact that the stuff in front of you is gleaming like jewels.”

      “Then what’s up with the tippy-tapping?  Does the boy have a problem?”

Greg saw both Dolly and Bertie preparing to step in, but decided this was his duty and one he was glad to perform.

      “No, he doesn’t have a problem and you’re lucky he’s a decent person or he might be a touch insulted that you’d think that, let alone say it aloud.”

      “You have to admit, son, it’s a bit strange.”

      “Dad!”

      “What climbed up your arse?  Nothing wrong with the word.  Just means outside the norm.  So, what’s the story?  Is there one of those fancy terms for it?  Got an earful just this week from a woman when I said she should have left her son with a neighbor if he was too hyperactive to bring to the shops. Not only didn’t she apologize for his bothering everyone trying to buy a bit of something to fill the larder, she went on and on about how he had something with a what-we-call-it-now name that nobody can remember.  So what’s the name for this one?  Hate to cause offense when I’ve none to give.”

Greg gripped the napkin in his lap so hard he was sure Mrs. Hudson would never be able to press out the wrinkles, but refused to start yelling, because that would likely send the man he loved straight over the edge into a very bad place.

      “What’s the name?  Mycroft.”

      “Yeah, that’s _his_ name.  My memory’s not that bad, you daft boy.”

      “You asked the name for it.  What was the story.  That’s the answer.  It’s that he’s Mycroft.”

      “Doesn’t make a bloody bit of sense.”

      “Yeah, it does.  He’s Mycroft.  That’s who he is, what he has, however you want to phrase it.  He’s the most phenomenal man I’ve ever met, the kindest, most brilliant person I’ve ever known and that’s the story.  He’s a person.  A complete, whole, wonderful person named Mycroft.  There’s your story wrapped in a tidy bow.  Want another?  I have Batman underpants.  I wear them proudly.  I get out of bed and scratch my balls, chest and head in precisely that order.  Every single day.  I want the open side of the pillowcase to the inside of the bed and will turn the pillow around if that’s not how it is when I drop onto the mattress.  I hate the feel of newsprint on my fingers and I go more than slightly nutty when I run into a cobweb or get some of that clingy plastic film stuck to my fingers.  My house can scarcely be called a house – it’s got fake grass in one of the rooms!  What do _I_ have?  What’s _my_ problem?  I’m Greg.  It’s just all part of who I am, for good, for bad and for neither.  In fairness, you give me my share of grief for being _me_ and I suppose it’s to be expected that Mycroft will get his share, but realize, and realize very, very well, that it’s because he’s him and that’s the long and short of it.  Got that?”

Quickly withdrawing the finger he now realized he’d been pointing and stabbing at his father to emphasize his point, Greg cleared his throat and only looked at Mycroft long enough to give him a firm nod that he hoped said ‘I have your back now and I always will, even if it’s my bastard parents causing you pain.’  It wasn’t surprising, though, that his bastardess mother was now wading in with something to say and Greg girded his loins for the blistering retort.

      “Your father is very well aware how peculiar you are, Gregory Lestrade, and neither of us know from where, precisely, your peculiarities arise.  I, for one, have not entirely ruled out your being a changeling.  His point was that people can be very touchy about terminology and he didn’t want to get it wrong and hurt your Mycroft’s feelings.  Now…”

Greg had only rarely seen something in his mother’s eyes that wasn’t sharp and glinting, so the flash of softness that appeared pulled the rug out from under his anger and left him windmilling his mental arms so he didn’t land on the floor.

      “… maybe your Mycroft will need a bit of time to understand that sort of thing, but I suspect he will eventually, since he does have a brain in his head, unlike someone else who shall remain nameless because I thought he should be named Peter after my father and not Gregory after _someone’s_ grandfather, but be that as it may… we’ve time to sort it all out.  It’s not as if he’s going anywhere, unless you make a mess of things, which will _not_ make me happy in the slightest, so keep that very well in mind, young man.”

Greg hoped his ‘eep’ of surprise wasn’t actually as loud as it sounded, because that could give his mother something to criticize and that seemed positively criminal at this precise moment.

      “Oh, that’s so kind of you George, thinking about our Mycroft that way.  And, I agree, Patty.  It may take Mycroft a bit of time to grab the right end of the stick; the younger generation always needs a little extra time to hop on the train, at times, but he’ll get there!  You should have seen poor Greg when he and I had our first real chat.  Poor dear tried to hide how taken he was with my son.  Isn’t that silly!  As if he could hide that sort of thing from a mother.”

      “I’m not surprised in the least.  Greg has never credited me nor his father with an ounce of perception.  It is as if we live on Mars for the understanding of this world he thinks we have.  Positively shameful.”

As the mothers commiserated over the delusional state of their offspring and the fathers took the time to concentrate on their soup, Greg sat a moment to process what had happened.  His mother had stepped up to smooth over his dad’s gaffe or, more precisely, make clear what the old bastard was doing a terrible and shameful job of saying, turned the attention that was making Mycroft very uncomfortable onto _him_ instead, and stated in no uncertain terms her approval of his and Mycroft’s relationship.  That was… a lot to take in.

The only person who looked more confused than him was Mycroft and no amount of trying to read his writer’s features was providing a real idea of what was going on in Mycroft’s mind.  When all else fails, just ask…

      “Mycroft?  Doing ok?”

      “I…”

      “How about a head nod or a head shake, instead, if words are playing silly buggers with your brain?”

Having his writer’s head move in a pattern best described as a circle wasn’t exactly the conclusive response for which Greg was hoping so, leaving Mycroft to think a little more, Greg turned to Sherlock, against his better judgement, and gave him a nudge.

      “Alright, Mr. Detective, what do you make of all this and how can I use that information to help your brother?  And, no, don’t even say you couldn’t care less about helping your brother because I don’t care what you don’t care about and really need some help here.”

Sherlock’s mouth, which had opened specifically to say that he couldn’t care less about helping his brother, snapped shut and the younger man glared at Greg for a long moment before saying what would have followed his obligatory show of disdain before the show was nipped in the bud.

      “Mycroft has experienced any number of times a hostile situation, an overbearingly-insipid one, or one marked by dismissive ignorance, however… it is rare that a non-family third-party diffuses it in a manner that does not escalate his discomfort.  I suspect he was bracing for the worst and it did not arrive, which has him off-balance.  Distract him from plunging into an unnecessary analysis which will further disable his social-interaction skills, and refocus him on a single, concrete, positive thing that can anchor him in the present and… make him happy.”

      “Got it.  Thanks.”

Sherlock’s rolled eyes weren’t noticed by Greg but they _were_ by John, who smiled at the attempted coverup of Sherlock’s actual feelings and gave his lover a small leg squeeze under the table.  They’d talked about tonight, what it would mean to Greg and Mycroft both, and Sherlock was, no matter what others might think, doing his best to behave in a completely expected fashion, which was actually helpful in its own way for Mycroft, and to support his brother however possible.  Rewards would be forthcoming when they were back at home.  The type and duration of those rewards would scandalize the most prolific porn actor in the business.

For his part, Greg turned on his warmest smile and reached over to tap Mycroft’s fingernail to get his love’s attention.

      “How’s that brain doing, Mycroft?”

      “It…”

      “Still present and accounted for?”

      “Well, yes, that is really not in question.”

Words!  Real words.  Still learning how to navigate things, but Greg Lestrade was a _very_ good pupil, as long as it wasn’t maths or science that used maths or DIY projects that involved parts and steps and patience.

      “Good!  Mum would probably blame me if your brain had gone missing.  It’s clear you’re her favorite now.”

Mycroft’s small startle made Greg grin and do some mental air-punching as he watched the notion settle into Mycroft’s still in-situ brain.

      “She… she _did_ make mention of my intellect.”

      “And that if I fucked up, I best start running because she was going after my bum with a bazooka.  Mum seems very approving of you, Mr. Mycroft Holmes.  And if Dad was showing interest, he’s very approving of you, too.”

      “That… oh, I suppose that could be true.”

You more than suppose, you adorable man.  Look at your eyes lighting up while that nasty old confusion and worry was being shown the fucking door.

      “Mum and Dad are who they are, and that won’t change, so we both need to be ready for it, but… you’re tops in their books and they’re happy we’re together.  You did it, love.  Glowed like a flame and won them right over.  Not an easy thing to do, I can tell you from experience.”

Dolly had been keeping one ear on the adult conversation and one ear on the children’s chatter and wished it wouldn’t explode the situation if she just launched a hug-and-cheek-pinch attack on her son and his lover.  Greg was so good at helping her Mycroft over the hurdles and there were certainly going to be a lot of them in their lives, but Mycroft was filling right back up to the brim with confidence as she sat here and watched, so those hurdles were not going to keep him down for very long.

      “I… I _have_ tried my best to present myself as a suitable partner for you.”

      “And you did it.  Congratulations, Mycroft.  The evening is a tremendous success and so are you.”

The smallest of smiles crept out on Mycroft’s face and it grew as Greg waggled his eyebrows and gave his fingernail another few taps.  it was the cutest sight imaginable and John made certain Sherlock got a full look at it, both to point out the detective’s own success at being a good brother and send that good brother into a little brother tizzy at his older sibling _being_ unimaginably cute.

      “Mummy!  Mycroft’s besottedness is spoiling my meal!”

      “John, dear, give Sherlock a kiss so he doesn’t feel left out of the besot-whatsit.”

      “Yes, Mrs. Holmes.  Come here, Sherlock, pucker up.”

      “Your treachery will not be forgotten, John.”

      “Will it help if I give you half of my share of Greg’s bribery money for the night?”

      “It… might.”

      “Then give me a kiss, make your mum happy and think about spending your windfall.”

Sherlock huffed, but gave John a quick peck, then reached across Greg to shove the salt and pepper out of position before smirking at Mycroft, who glared in response.

      “The gauntlet has been hurled, brother dear.”

      “And uptaken, pompous pufferfish.”

      “Bertie, the boys are going to duel again.  Put the smash on that nonsense, will you?  Can’t get blood on the rugs or Martha will have my head to go with theirs!”

      “Mycroft, Sherlock, you will postpone any contests of honor until they can be conducted outdoors so the staff is not required to perform extra duties to return the house to habitable condition in the aftermath of the melee.”

      “There, listen to your Dad, the both of you.  No rough play in the house.”

The twin, murmured ‘Yes, Mummy’ got _two_ maternal nods, further cementing the melding of the Lestrade and Holmes clans.  Greg knew, on one hand, it was a good thing.  On the other hand, it was positively terrifying.  At least he wouldn’t have to deal with it all himself, though.

      “Oh dear.  Gregory, my soup has gone cold.”

      “Greg!  Get your whatever it is you call it when two blokes are shagging a fresh bowl of soup.  In fact, it looks like everyone is ready for the next course.  I know I am.  Ring the bell for the maid or take your arse to the kitchen to see your guests sorted.  Oh, and more bread.  Dashed good stuff this is, and I know a good bit of bread when I have it!”

      “Yes, Gregory, I believe your father has made several credible points.  And remember my cold soup.  It is forming a viscosity that is utterly at odds with both the bread and silhouette of the sideboard.”

Note to self:  never tempt fate because it’s a bastard with a wicked sense of timing…

__________

Dinner was over, cake was eaten, more alcohol was quaffed, Sherlock and John sent on their way… notably richer with his cash for the experience… and now it was time to put the final touches on the evening and call it a night.

      “Mum, Dad… Charles brought the car out, so if you want to make a start for it, I’ll meet you there in a moment.”

      “We’ll walk them out, Greg.  You and Mycroft talk your time with your goodbyes while Bertie and me keep your parents company.”

Thank you, Dolly, for buying us a few _extra_ minutes before Dad starts blaring the horn and bringing the neighbors out with torches and pitchforks.

      “That is an excellent idea, Mummy.  Gregory…”

Mycroft nodded Greg back towards the sitting room so there was no opportunity for parental prying eyes and leaned in to give Greg a small kiss on his lips.

      “Thank you, my dear.  For everything you have done this evening.”

      “You’re welcome and I thank _you_ for making it a far better evening than I could ever have predicted.”

      “Your parents… shall they be in London long?”

      “No, they’re on the train home tomorrow.  Anderson will see them off because I have an interview and photoshoot in the morning that will see me through lunch.”

      “Might you have time tomorrow night for a film?”

      “Uh…. maybe.  I know I have a meeting in the afternoon with some studio executives, but I’ll phone and leave word if you’re not awake about what the night looks to offer.  Ok?”

      “Yes, I realize the calls upon your time are many and tenacious, so I will understand if we must postpone.”

      “Thanks.  Well… goodnight, Mycroft.  I love you.”

      “And I love you, Gregory.  Deeply and wholeheartedly.”

Greg slightly raised his arms before quickly dropping them and leaning in to give Mycroft a lingering kiss with what he hoped were sufficiently unchapped lips.

      “Perfect.  Your kisses are always perfect, Mycroft Holmes.”

      “Hmmmm…”

That was not the response Greg had expected, but he held off digging deeper since Mycroft was wearing his thinking frown.  Then he was taking a step backwards, wrapping his arms around himself, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, turning in a circle a few times, and vibrating like a reed before squaring his shoulders and striding forward to press his chest firmly against Greg’s and lifting Greg’s arms to wrap around him like his own arms had done an instant before.

      “You sure, love?”

      “Yes.”

      “Ok…”

Greg nestled slightly closer to his writer and repositioned his arms just a bit to better hold Mycroft’s body as he leaned in for another kiss, starting slowly in case Mycroft changed his mind, then with greater passion that had him running his hands across Mycroft’s back and moaning softly as Mycroft responded by running a hand up to trail long, eager fingers against his throat.

      “Gregory… oh dear.”

That was an odd ‘oh dear.”

      “What?”

      “I… oh…”

Greg followed Mycroft’s eyes down to the sizeable bulge in Mycroft’s trousers that had made its owner confused and Greg’s mouth water in a highly Pavlovian fashion.

      “Good.  Tells me you’re enjoying this.”

      But… what if Mummy and Father see!”

      “It’ll go down.  Untuck your shirt if you’re… ok, you look more unhappy about that than your hard on.”

      “This is disastrous!”

      “No, it’s not.  It’s absolutely normal, so expect more of that in the future when I get the honor of holding that amazing body of yours and kissing you like you deserve.”

      “That… I do very much like the sound of that, however…”

      “Maybe when we have a bit more assured privacy?”

      “Yes.”

      “Something I promise to remember.”

      “Thank you.  However, the erection issue remains.”

      “That it does…”

Dolly could talk for hours, so they certainly had a handful of minutes to themselves, which was really all that was needed if you focused on fast and filthy.  The question was whether fast and filthy could get the green light from the man who the filthy would be perpetrated on.

      …”Want… want me to do something about it?”

      “Oh.  What do you suggest?”

      “Well… it’d have to be something quick.  And with no evidence left behind.”

      “Yes, that is certainly true.”

      “I do have an idea for that if you’ll allow it.”

      “What… what is it?”

      “I’ll show you.  Stop me at any point, ok?”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed as Greg dropped to his knees, but widened to twice their size as Greg made short work of unfastening his trousers and slowly let his fingers caress the rigid cock straining beneath the fine undergarments to have the chance to know him better.

      “Gregory…”

      “Any point, love.  You stop me anytime you want.”

Not hearing the stop signal yet, Greg drew out the long, slender cock he’d seen only once before and let his hand stroke the shaft a few times, reveling in the shakiness of Mycroft’s breath as he worked.

      “You’re gorgeous, Mycroft.  Every part of you is gorgeous.  Your cock feels fantastic, too.  Long, hard, so happy to see me.  I already know it’s going to taste good, too.”

      “T…taste?  Oh dear heavens…”

Greg slid the head of Mycroft’s cock into his mouth and sucked it softly a few moments as a prelude of more to come and to give Mycroft another chance to call a halt, but without any sign of that, since a thrown back head and fingers curling in his hair to tug him closer indicated a far happier path, he slowly drew Mycroft’s erection deeper into his mouth and used his tongue along the way to tantalize and tease his partner into a quietly panting mess of arousal.

Then it was a very gentle humming as he began to stroke Mycroft’s cock with his mouth, something that earned him a long series of needy moans and Mycroft’s fingers tightening in his hair, urging him to take things further, which Greg was happy to do, sucking Mycroft down as deeply as he could and quickening his pace until heavy splashes of semen were rewarding his efforts in the most delectable way possible.

A few licks served to clean Mycroft’s cock of anything but saliva and the handkerchief his mum insisted he have in his pocket came in handy to gently wipe that last bit of fluid from his love’s skin, drying it acceptably before Greg restored Mycroft’s clothing to normal and rose to take in the breathtaking sight of an utterly satiated partner who had yet to return from the pleasurable land his mind and body had been traipsing through the last few minutes.

Taking the chance that a partially-here Mycroft wouldn’t notice or object, Greg moved back to take his writer in a full embrace and held him gently for another few moments for Mycroft to regain his grip on reality.

      “Gregory… I did not imagine…”

      “Enjoyed that, did you?”

      “That is a gross understatement.”

      “Perfect.  And no messy evidence to worry about your parents seeing.”

      “Very true.  For such an untidy act, it provides a functional solution to the problem of cleanliness.”

      “I’m all about functional solutions.  Phone you tomorrow?”

      “Yes, that is our agreement.”

Greg grinned, then leaned in for a quick kiss, stopping when he correctly noticed Mycroft remembering what might linger in his mouth, then held up his finger for Mycroft to kiss and send him on his way.

      “There you are!  Your mum and dad are waiting, Greg, so best run along.  Oh… need I ask what you two have been up to in here?”

Given Greg and Mycroft both bore the rumpled signs of something fun and Dolly was a practiced hand at the art of rumpling.

      “I believe it was you, Dolly, who brought up the topic of snogging tonight, wasn’t it?”

      “That I did.  And look!  Mycroft getting a touch of pink on his cheeks just like his dad did when we’d been snogging and got caught at it.  I just have to pinch that pink.”

Mycroft dutifully accepted the cheek molestation because he was far happier his mother believed Greg’s feeble story and didn’t appear primed to tunnel further into their business.

      “Pinch away, dear lady!  I’ll say my goodnights, then, and don my driver’s cap to see my parents to my house.  Mycroft… I love you.”

Mycroft’s “I love you, also’ was nearly drowned out by Dolly’s happy squeak, but it was audible enough to send Greg on his way with a contented smile and even more adoration in his heart for the man of his dreams.  He was off to Morocco in a few days and… that was going to be hard.  It was definitely time to learn than Skype business or something like it.  It might take some convincing, but he suspected a little encouragement of the right sort would make his Mycroft a happy aficionado of old-fashioned phone sex, even if it was freshened up for the digital age.   Could that sort of thing be recorded?  Wouldn’t a nice bit of video of his Mycroft, naked in bed and pleasuring himself, be just the thing to liven up his lonely nights when they were thousands of miles apart…


	45. Chapter 45

Anderson looked at his plate, which, like Anthea’s, was richly provided with succulence and swore he could hear the faint sound of his arteries clogging.

      “Tomorrow, we really need to eat salad.”

      “For every meal.”

      “Breakfast salad.  I wonder how that would be different from lunch or dinner salad.”

      “More sausages.”

Anthea had some of the best ideas in the world.

      “That works for me.  This decadent, luscious food going into my mouth right now is amazing, but a solid, traditional English breakfast salad with sausages and thick slices of toast reigns supreme.”

Anderson pushed the forkful of decadent, luscious Greek take-away into his mouth, doing his best not to drip any on the riot of papers spread out on the table between them.  When one foodie meets another foodie great things happen.  Not to the waistline, but he’d walk a few extra steps tomorrow and all would be right as rain.  Or not.  No use rushing into things as radical as walking.

      “I’m just glad we can charge all of this to other pocketbooks.  It’s the meagerest reward for all of this extra work.  Mycroft and I don’t renegotiate our contract with anything approaching regularity, but I’m going to schedule time for it and add a clause that says he can’t dart off and capture murderers without first obtaining my approval.  I also need to script in a percentage wage boost for the extra hours spent dealing with the aftermath of his forays into crimefighting.”

      “I actually have a paragraph or two in my contract about exceptional circumstances, but Greg and I realized we’re never exactly sure what constitutes ‘exceptional,’ given the standard lunacy of his life, so I’ve never raised the issue.  I think crimefighting actually meets the necessary standard, though.”

      “How long do you think the press mania will last?”

      “Ummm… the initial blast should quiet itself by tomorrow.  Tonight, really, but a lot of the interviews Greg does later today won’t be printed until tomorrow.  After that, it’ll be another day or so of a winding down as new things leap into the spotlight.  They always do, so that initial window of opportunity has to be crashed through and crashed through hard.”

      “How’s Greg holding up?”

      “Not bad.  His parents surprising him yesterday wasn’t helpful, in terms of his energy level, but he got the meet-the-parents nonsense taken care of so that’s a lingering worry he doesn’t have anymore.  And they approved!  That was not what Greg was expecting, so today’s shit will, at least, be faced with a real smile and not the one he slaps on for interviewers and cameras.”

      “Hmmmm… then I won’t choose today to put the boot in over this question list, or should I say, question _book_ from those library types you lunched with.  It landed on my desk this morning with a thump and dented the wood.”

      “Oops.  Forgot about that.”

      “They didn’t.  I’d say they’ve used each intervening moment since Greg mentioned it to fill every piece of paper known to man with questions.  Real paper, too, not an email attachment.  Maybe they feared overloading the internet into collapse.”

      “Any we can just knock out here, so Mycroft has less to do?”

      “Oh yes, and I have my voice recording app ready to go for any stray, slack moment when I can cross one or two off the list.  The fewer Mycroft has to tend to, the happier _everyone_ will be.  And anything to make him happy now is going to be helpful, because I predict a downturn in happiness once Greg skips away out of the country.”

      “It’s not forever.”

      “No, but it’s that crap first time-apart that’s never fun, even if you’re the sort who very much enjoys time spent alone.  At least he has his newest book to distract him from pining.”

      “Do you think he’ll try to get his fingers into the film while Greg’s away?”

      “Hard to say, but my instincts lean towards no.  He and Greg worked something out, to some degree, over the Janine Hawkins situation, so I don’t think he’d simply wade in without Greg being here personally to discuss it.”

      “Greg mentioned I have to teach him to Skype.”

      “Marvelous.  Ok, my instincts are now changing their mind.”

      “Give me what heads up you can, if your instinct-lean is in the correct direction?”

      “I will.  We really should incorporate a business for joint client handling.  It’d save time compared to fielding two calls, one for the initial discussion and one for the actual representative of the client in question to ok the outcome of those calls.”

      “That’s not a bad idea.  I have nothing against learning more about books and author representation.”

      “I _do_ have a lot against learning more about the film industry and actors, but the road to glory is paved with headaches.”

      “Wise.  Speaking of… I was looking at all of this and… are you certain Mycroft won’t do an interview?  It seems a lightning-bolt moment to spark greater interest in his works.”

      “If you ever shepherded him through one you wouldn’t ask that. Even a phone interview for a radio segment for a program only people over seventy listens to had me considering ending my life in a rather spectacular manner.”

      “What about a print piece?  With final copy approval?”

The increasing specificity in Anderson’s question made Anthea curious, which was only heightened by his failed attempt at a nonchalant look in her direction.

      “You seem to have something in mind.”

      “I do, actually.  Freelancer I know who’s done a few pieces on Greg, which my big lout actually enjoyed.  I think he’d work well with Mycroft since he’s intelligent, polite, calm… usually…”

      “Usually?”

      “Another reason I think he’d work well with Mycroft.  Let’s just say he’s very used to people who don’t walk the assumed ‘normal’ path and is sympathetic to that.”

      “Huh…”

      “I can set up something… get a photographer in, too.  I know one, again, that could be a very good fit if we sell it right.  We can hurry to put something online in a day or so or take a bit more time for a print spread.  I’ve got some pull with the magazines, trash and serious, to shake one into giving us some space either way.”

Anthea took a moment to savor her own lunch and think on the suggestion.  Mycroft hated publicity.  Hated it more than polyester, which he considered one of the four horsemen of the Apocalypse.  That being said, this was a lightning-strike moment and if she didn’t, at minimum, make a push for something, even a single interview, she wasn’t doing her job.

      “Let me talk to him about that.  He _has_ made mention of how he despises that Greg is having to put in extra work on the media circuit because of Sherlock’s nonsense.  He hasn’t mentioned wanting to take any of the burden himself, that would never occur to him, but it might be a tool to get him to stick his neck out of his tortoise shell.  It would take your assurance that it won’t upset him, and he’ll have final approval of everything.  And I do mean final, as in end of story, no overrides, no vetoes that aren’t being used by him and him alone.”

      “Normally, I’d say no promises, but given the situation and the person involved, who is notorious for doing so little publicity as to be nonexistent, I suspect I can make both of those things happen.”

Anthea took another bite and let the idea roll around in her mind.  It would have to be the right sort of interview, too.  Something very much in line with the man himself.

      “I _might_ be able to sell him on a classy and sedate piece.”

      “One of those flattering things that offers up lots of lovely photos, erudite text and zero controversy.  And no asking for details about his new book.”

      “It _would_ give him something to meddle in, maybe right after Greg leaves, to distract him from being upset at the separation.”

      “So he doesn’t immediately turn attention to meddling with the film.”

      “I think… this is an idea.”

Anderson grinned and felt surprisingly happy about it all, given it wasn’t _his_ client he was scheming to get some good press.  It was becoming hard, though, with everything going on, not to feel as if Mycroft had a place under his proverbial wing.

      “A real one, too, not one of our usual spasms of brain chemistry.”

      “I’ll talk to him tonight.  You talk to _Greg_ to talk to him tonight.  They’re doing a film, so there should be opportunity aplenty for Greggers to work his magic.”

      “True.  And you should talk to his mum, too.  You know Dolly will be right on board with seeing her son, looking handsome and being praised in some article she could have framed as part of her doting-mother collection.”

      “Dolly the siege weapon.  She’s good for things like that.  What time is it… perfect.  Time enough to get her out of the house for a few cocktails and a lot of conniving.  When do you have to collect your prize stud?”

      “In about…two hours.  I set up an assembly-line sort of thing for the morning, so he just slides from one interview to the next, with short breaks for the potty or coffee.  Those are all by phone, at least, so he can mill around his house in his comfortable rubbish clothes.  I’ll go with him for the in-person ones, though, since he can’t simply hang up if he’s getting peeved with the person asking the questions.”

      “That leaves us enough time to manage all the business in front of us right now and I’ll meet with Dolly for a little gin and scandal afterwards.  Then, we can launch Operation Interview full force.”

      “All this for one small bit of publicity.  I really do have to admire Mycroft his standing by his convictions with this degree of stubbornness.”

      “Say that again after he’s refused the copy proofs yet again because someone split an infinitive or the light for the photographs makes a shoulder seem overly saccharine.”

      “That’s what alcohol is for.  Speaking of…”

      “Definitely time to open the wine I bought last night.  A glass or two before drinks with Dolly is never a bad idea.”

      “We can view it as a business expense, too, so write that down for our new corporation.”

      “Absolutely.  I’ll start an accounts file tomorrow to get all of this organized.”

      “Mark down two bottles of the wine.  I suspect we’ll go through another soon enough.”

      “I’ll put a case in the ledger.  Operation Interview fairly well makes it a certainty.”

__________

      “It is utterly intolerable!”

Greg kept his soda pouring, popcorn popping, butter melting and other film-snacks-related activities at scarcely above a snail’s pace to give Mycroft a full measure of time to vent before they actually settled into the process of consuming said snacks and watching the film that would accompany the rest of the evening.

      “Intolerable, right.”

      “Anthea knows very well, very well indeed, that I do not participate in such things.”

      “No participation.  Got it.  Bad Anthea.”

      “An interview… with photographs!  The violation!  The insult to my privacy and person…”

      “Violations are a violation.”

      “Unquestionably.  And Mummy… oh, you well can imagine how bothersome she has become about this.  There are picnic ants not as pestiferous!”

      “Smush the ants.”

      “Well… I am opposed to violence against any creature, regardless of species.”

      “Gently brush the ants away from the cake.  Or writer.”

      “Better.   It is an outrage, Gregory.  To subject me to their henpecking, knowing full well I shall not be moved, regardless of the sharpness of their respective beaks.”

      “Down with beaks!”

      “Gregory Lestrade, are you even gleaning the meaning of my words or simply concocting protest phrases based on the simple repetition of random words in my sentences?”

      “I’m gleaning like a bastard.  I’m also trying to get all of this together without making a mess, starting a fire, or opening a wormhole, so I’m trying to be efficient with my responses, yet supportive at the same time.”

      “Oh.  I see.  Very well, carry on.  An interview!  A person descending on my home to harass and harangue me… I shall not permit it!”

      “Permit not issued!”

      “The snooping, the prying, the inveigling…”

      “Stop the snoops!  Can’t have them stomping in and taking you by surprise with their inveigly questions.”

      “I… in truth, I _would_ receive a copy of the questions beforehand to approve.”

      “Oh… that’s worse, then.  They lull you into thinking it’s all per the script, then change the scene when they show up with all their prying and snoopery.”

      “I… I do have the option to terminate the interview at will, with no portion subject to publication.”

      “Oh… that’s worser than worse, then.  They do what you think is a nice interview, then toss it in the rubbish and publish a seething, writhing mass of lies and treachery.”

      “I have final approval of all potential copy with clearly delineated courses of legal action and penalty should any post-interview liberties be taken.”

      “Then I got nothing.”

      “For what?”

      “For you objecting to the interview.”

      “That… I have an _astronomical_ amount to which to object!”

      “Such as?”

      “The bother!  The sheer indignity of inquisition!  The infringement upon my personal sphere!”

      “That’s a lot, I do admit.  Especially if the interviewer is one of those crass and boorish ones, who you’d rather kick in the arse than talk to if you met them at the pub.”

      “I have no knowledge of the bounder.”

      “Except they’re a bounder.”

      “Aren’t they all?”

      “No… some are fine.  Look at the young lad I talked to the night you caught the murderer.  Polite, did more listening than talking. You saw the piece he wrote, too.  Short, to the point, no slanders or tabloid crap to be found anywhere.”

      “That… yes, that is true.  But, clearly an aberration.  One might, occasionally, find an example of media vermin that does not infect you immediately with plague when it bites.”

      “Or one that doesn’t bite at all but, instead, helps you find your keys and retrieves the remote you dropped down behind the sofa.”

      “That is not supportive, Gregory.”

      “I’m sorry.  I was distracted by measuring popcorn.”

      “You must be precise with that, above all else.  The proper kernel to oil ratio is paramount.”

      “Hence my intense concentration.”

      “I do apologize.  However, the point stands.  I shall not see my home invaded by a paid infiltrator who shall surely attempt to hector me into revealing all manner of plot points and story ideas.”

      “Sounds fiendish.  Not that you know who they’d be.”

      “I do!  I very much know!”

      “Really?  Who?”

      “Someone with a suspicious name.”

      “Which is?”

      “Henry Knight.  Obviously an alias.”

      “Uh… no.  Not an alias.  That’s his name.”

      “How would you know the reprobate?”

      “Because he’s not a reprobate, he’s a freelance writer who I’ve chatted with a number of times.”

      “How despoiled were you by the experience?”

      “Sherlock, is that you?”

      “How appalling.”

      “Then behave.  Henry is a nice guy.  Smart, too.  Articulate, does a thorough, careful job with his writing, takes the time to get to know you a little and shows genuine interest in what you have to say… doesn’t ask the predictable questions, either.  Normally, I can write up the text of a conversation from almost any of the usual suspects that interview me, but Henry always surprises me.  Has a fresh perspective and it’s nice to chat about different topics.  You’ve actually read some of his stuff, if I remember.”

      “I… I have?”

      “He wrote that piece in _Film International_ that you said wasn’t complete drivel.  Did another for… what was its name… oh yeah, long one… _The Historical Journal of Film, Radio and Television_ about the action-adventure genre and interviewed me as part of that.  I don’t know if you read that one, but I saw the first in your little portfolio of spy material on me, so that’s one for certain.  I’ve done a few others with him, as well.  Quality stuff, not the usual sort of thing you’d expect.”

      “Oh.  I… I did appreciate the technical aspects of that piece.  It was well written and informative.”

      “That’s Henry.  Doesn’t always do film stuff, gets in some music and art pieces now and again, but they’re always excellent.”

      “Then why is he not employed by a journal of repute?”

      “Because… it’s not really my place to say.”

      “We have returned to the arena of despoiling.  I suspected we would come full circle.”

      “Wrong, you evil git.  It’s… Henry is of a… nervous disposition.  Most days, he’s fine.  Now and again, though, he goes through a rough patch and that keeps him from hiring on with a company. In any case, it does give him extra freedom to pick and choose what he wants to write and there’s benefit in that.  He’s got money, too, inherited it, so he’s not desperate for his next meal.”

      “Nervous disposition?”

      “He suffered a trauma as a kid and… it left scars.  Not physical ones, that is.  Doesn’t detract from his talent, though.  It’s a shame he won’t be interviewing you.  I can only imagine what he’d create from that.”

Greg carefully kept from looking at Mycroft because he did _not_ want Mycroft to see the smile that rose from Mycroft’s extended huff.  The first part of the huff was dismissive but then it tapered into a protracted exhalation which signaled a touch of confusion and a great deal of thinking.

      “Photographs, Gregory.  Anthea is pressing for me to… oh, I cannot bear the thought.”

      “Of your handsome self being captured for all eternity?”

      “No, that is a thought I can easily bear.  It is just… I have… here.  Evidence.”

Mycroft pulled out his mobile and flicked through the photos to find a selection he’d added to his growing Gregory collection.

      “Behold!  The scourge of the professional photographer.”

      “Oh, those.”

Greg smirked at the series of photos, one of which was him arse over elbows in a chair with his legs waving in the air.  That had a been fun afternoon.

      “I refuse to behave in such an indecorous manner.”

      “It would have been indecorous if I’d been shagging the chair or something, but it’s just me larking about with fairly plain armchair.  And, no, before you ask, I wasn’t drunk.”

      “I shall not lark about.  I am forcefully opposed to the very notion of it!”

      “I honestly doubt anyone would expect you to.  I would wager that the most you’d be asked to do is something fairly… contemplative.  Look out a window, sit at your desk, pose in front of a bookcase, that sort of thing.  You’re a serious writer and, unless you were hoping for an article to showcase your wild and whimsical side, the writing and photos would reflect that.  Any idea who The Double-A team has in mind for your snaps?”

Because that was one bit of information neither Anderson nor Anthea had bothered to pass along.

      “I refuse to remember.”

      “That’s a lot of refusing in a short period of time.  Does it hurt?”

      “Gregory!”

      “Just showing concern.  Now, the photographer?”

      “Someone with a ridiculous name.”

      “That wasn’t as helpful as you might think it is.”

      “I was not trying to be helpful.”

      “Then you did a fantastic job.  Really, very well done.  Want to try, this time, giving me actual information and not running from the concept of helping me out with basic data?”

      “I did.  You are looking at it.”

Mycroft pointed at the photo of Greg on his phone, prompting the actor to furrow his brow, then explode in laughter.

      “Wiggins?  Oh, that’s perfect.  He’s amazing.”

      “There is nothing amazing about that travesty!”

      “Hold on…”

Greg took the popcorn pot off the stove, happy that the oil had just started heating, and darted over to one of the bookshelves to draw down a large tome with a solid black spine.

      “Have a look.”

Mycroft inspected the book in Greg’s hands carefully for signs of… unseemliness… then hesitantly took it and began to thumb through the large, glossy pages.

      “Wiggins is… who he is, but, like Henry, he does excellent, highly professional work.  The day we did that particular photoshoot, I was riding a bit of an energy high from… I’d visited a children’s hospital in the morning and had so much fun with the tots that it carried over.  A good photographer captures the essence of the moment and my essence was not for the faint of heart.  But it won’t be the same in your case, so the photos would be different.”

Continuing to page through the photography book, which was a collection of pieces by one William Wiggins, Mycroft had to concede that his initial impressions might be somewhat off the mark.  He was relatively ambivalent about photography as an art form, however, it would be intellectually dishonest to state that there did not exist examples that approached the classical definition of artistry.  Quite a number were contained in this book.

      “Wiggins is a bit of a whirligig for subject matter, he follows his muse wherever it might lead, and it’s led to some extraordinary and head-shaking places, but I always buy whatever new book he has out, attend his gallery shows when I’m in London.”

      “Why have you not purchased his actual photographs?  Does he not sell them?”

      “Oh, he does.  But, I’m banned from displaying any of his work on my walls.”

      “Banned?  Whatever for?”

      “Because, and I quote, you live in a fucking sterile hellhole that has all the ambience of a deserted plumbing-fixtures shop and half its utility.”

      “Most perceptive.”

      “Hey!  I thought my house was… growing on you.”

      “It is, I am actually growing most comfortable in this space and the uniqueness of the structure certainly marries well with your personality.  However, that shall not change my opinion on its basic aesthetic quality.  Or lack thereof.”

In truth, Greg was perfectly fine with Mycroft’s fussy house sensibilities, because they were so purely Mycroft and, most importantly for this issue, they were warming up the writer to the person who might be immortalizing his adorable face in a photograph.  He had to hand it to the Wonder Twins… they put together the best possible chance of getting Mycroft to consent to an actual bit of publicity.

      “I suspect he’d adore _your_ house, though.”

      “Unquestionably.  My house is far more interesting than yours.”

      “I wager you could nudge him to take a few shots of the house and grounds for your own collection.  He’s done a good bit of architectural work and has a feel for finding the soul of a structure and bringing it to life.”

      “Perhaps I should make that a condition of his contract.”

Gotcha.

      “Possible.  Talk to Anthea about that.”

      “I shall.  I am most intrigued by how a photographer might perceive my home and the ways in which it coincides with and differs from my own.”

      “A very fertile area of discussion, I suspect.  Chat with Henry about that, too.  He’s not a fiction writer, but probably has some insights into what houses like yours provoke in people, in terms of ideas or emotions.  He lives in one of those myth-sodden areas, little villages with their own legends and boogeymen, so I’m sure he’s given that sort of thing a lot of thought.”

      “Ah… most felicitous.  I have actually in mind another book that centers on such a locale and he could be useful source of information.”

As if you aren’t your own source, Mycroft, my dearest love, since you live in what amounts to Royston Vasey after it’d had a family of vampires move in and get active in local politics.

      “I have no doubt he’d very much enjoy those conversations.  So… on to our film?”

I’m not going to ask if you’ve agreed to the interview and simply flow with the idea it’s a done deal and you’re already thinking about what you’ll have Mrs. Hudson serve for tea.

      “Oh!  Yes, I am most looking forward to it.  Though…”

      “Yeah?”

      “The popcorn.”

      “Is right here.”

      “It has been…languishing in the oil.”

      “Is that a problem?”

      “Yes.”

      “Ok… so fresh oil, fresh corn… can I just wipe out the pot or do I need a new one completely?”

      “I suppose a thorough wiping will be sufficient.”

      “You can check to see if I’ve done a good job.”

      “I intended to.”

      “I can always count on you.”

      “Yes.  I do believe you can.”

__________

      “Not on a writing day, of course.”

      “Naturally, Mr. Holmes.”

Anthea kept her voice as neutral as possible as Mycroft ticked off the little details of his interview that he’d not precisely agreed to, but seemed to already be taking charge of so it met his exacting standards.  Greg had phoned Anderson, who had phoned her, so she’d had plenty of time to perfect the tone-neutrality to keep her client, when _he_ phoned, from spooking like a startled rabbit when he more consciously realized what he’d agreed to in the first place.

      “And I shall wear precisely what I choose.  There shall be no suggestion otherwise.”

      “I’ll make that very clear.”

      “I shall, however, inform them what is acceptable for color, pattern and texture in terms of their own attire.”

Meaning she’d tell them to stuff everything they owned in a sack and be prepared to change at the pub once she texted the uniform of the day.

      “I’ll make that very clear, also.”

      “Mummy will not be present.”

      “You can handle that particular detail yourself.”

      “Coward.”

      “I have no problem with that.”

      “Pfft… how far in advance shall I receive the list of interview questions?”

      “That depends on when you want to schedule the interview.  I’d say sooner the better.”

      “Very well.  Gregory… oh, Gregory departs in three days…”

A big part of the reason we’re all pushing this right now, Mr. Holmes.  Something to take you mind off of that and help transition you back to life without your snuggle monkey at your side.

      “And you’re set to return home a day or so after that.  A week, then?”

Which will be more than enough time to finalize which of the publications that have started bidding for the piece will actually win the day and allow the victor time to spread publicity about there _being_ Mycroft Holmes publicity coming to their august and established periodical.  Single-issue copies of that would be through the roof.  In as much as the literary world blows the roof off of anything.

      “A week to ten days is likely sufficient.  I do not anticipate this to be a complex ordeal, therefore, little preparation time is required on my part.”

Which translated to ‘everyone in the household, as well as you and Mr. Anderson, shall be handling the various preparations, therefore bugger the timeline.’

      “I’ll make the appropriate phone calls, then.  Now, since it’s fuck o’clock in the morning, I’m actually going to get some sleep, so I can start on those phone calls bright and early.”

      “You will inform me of your progress at your first opportunity.”

      “ _You_ will be sleeping.”

      “Inform Molly.”

      “Fine.  Anything else?”

      “Yes…”

That was an ominous yes.

      “Which is?”

      “Is there… should I…”

      “Uh huh?”

      “… host a going-away function for Gregory?”

The man was a gem.  The sort you’d never be able to put into a piece of jewelry because he’d never fit any conventional setting, but a gem, nonetheless.

      “If it was for a couple of years, I’d say yes, but for this… maybe a cozy dinner for just the two of you.”

      “That is certainly manageable.  I have eaten with Gregory any number of times.”

      “Then you’re set!  Goodnight, Mr. Holmes.”

      “Yes, goodnight.  Do not forget the progress reports.”

Anthea simply terminated the call, then shook her head at the whole business.  However, since it _was_ business, she also set her brain in motion for setting up tomorrow in such a way that she’d have something meaningful to put in those progress reports.  The publishing house likely would declare its own bank holiday hearing the news and order in cases of alcohol to celebrate this once-in-a-lifetime occurrence.  And what an occurrence it was.  Given the parties involved, this was a major coup for them and whoever was willing to pay most for that article.  She owed Anderson a lot for this.  A very, very lot.  But, since she could pay it into their in-fun-but-maybe-serious joint firm, it all balanced out.  No, scratch that.  She could actually _make_ money on the transaction, since tax law was a handy thing if you understood it properly… or, at least, had a cousin who did and was easy to browbeat into giving free advice.


	46. Chapter 46

      “I’ve been cooking for more years nearly than you’ve been alive, Mr. Holmes.”

Mycroft returned Mrs. Hudson’s steely glare with one of his own, though he had to admit her words were very likely factually correct.  Agreeing aloud, however, would likely prompt a lecture on why she was not an ‘old biddy’ and today was not the day for that particular lesson.

      “This dinner must be special, as you well know, and I will not let a single detail pass by without my scrutiny and approval.”

An idea that met, on one hand with _Mrs. Hudson’s_ approval, because her Mr. Holmes was in love and desperate to make his last night with Greg special but, on the other hand, was another example of the accursed man’s busybodying and that was stuff and nonsense she simply didn’t need.

      “Have I ever let you down?”

      “No, but you have also never prepared a goodbye dinner for Gregory so there is no precedent to act as a comparator.”

      “Take him to a…”

Mrs. Hudson stopped herself, because the very idea of Mycroft taking Greg to a restaurant in London was the height of absurdity.  Maybe if they had a few days to plan, which could include personally interviewing the staff and hiring temps for those who proved unacceptable, negotiating the table linens and candle color, and squabbling with the chef over the starter, dinner and pudding menu, it might be possible, but they didn’t have time for that. They had one day.  Less than one, actually, since today was officially tomorrow by the clock and ‘tonight’ was the last night Greg would be in London.  The poor man had done his best to spend as much time as he could with Mycroft these last precious-few days, but ‘as much time’ didn’t translate to ‘a great deal of time’ and that made for a disappointed writer and a frustrated actor, a combination that didn’t sit well with either man or their various support personnel.

      “… something fun for the two of you, instead, why don’t you?”

      “Anthea said a cozy dinner was the appropriate action.”

      “It’s not the only one, Mr. Holmes.  I suspect she didn’t think you’d…”

Take it as gospel?  Anyone who knew the man would assume he’d take it literally and make note in his mental files that a person going off for a bit necessitated a cozy dinner.  Changing gears…

      “… be locked into that one possibility.  Just a suggestion as _one_ thing you could do as a couple on his last night here.  Maybe try something new, something Greg might like you haven’t done yet.  Take a long walk, show him some of your favorite places in the city… you do have a few so don’t make that face, it might stick that way… see a show, I suspect Ms. Anthea or that nice Mr. Anderson could get tickets for something fun and seats that were a bit more private than milling about with the common people.  I’m sure you can think of something.  He’ll appreciate whatever you do, in any case, because you’re doing it for him because you care.”

Mrs. Hudson watched Mycroft mulling her words and waited patiently while the mulling infused the cloves, cinnamon and citrus deep into the wine of his brain to make something the whole family could enjoy.

      “I… I may have an idea.”

      “I knew you could do it.  Putting that enormous brain to good use for your Greg.  So, you go about that and I’ll…”

      “I will require your assistance.”

      “For your new plan?”

      “Yes.”

      “Alright… anybody else?  Molly’s asleep, but I think Charles is still banging about somewhere.”

      “Charles, yes… he could prove useful.”

Mycroft rubbing his hands together, gleam in his eye, usually signaled something a bit over the top, but you didn’t remain in his employ if that was something that gave you indigestion.

      “Then I’ll see where he’s off to and you get on with your scheming.  Your dad’s reading, do you want me to…”

      “No.  No, I believe this is something I should accomplish without Father’s interjections.”

After a quick nod, Mrs. Hudson left Mycroft’s study and Mycroft began to take the skeleton of an idea that was rattling about in his brain and graft some flesh to its bones.  He would need the cooperation of Anderson, however, would not be able to secure a guarantee on that until morning.  However, he would text Anthea with the necessary requirements and she could pass along the message.  That would free him from a phone conversation, but produce the desired outcome, just the same.  Excellent!  His going off the proverbial script was already paying dividends!  He perhaps should be spontaneous more often.  Certainly an idea worth considering.  Weighing in the balance.  He would begin work on a Benefits and Detriments of Spontaneity chart at his earliest opportunity…

__________

      “Come again?”

      “No, you can’t go home yet.”

Greg narrowed his eyes at Anderson who was busily finishing an email to the film personnel already in Morocco, finalizing their travel arrangements for tomorrow.  He’d thought they were done for the day after his interview with the chap from _Variety_ , but here they were, instead, sitting in a pleasant, out-of-the-way café sipping coffee and doing… nothing.  The suspicion level for this was officially rising.

      “Why not?”

      “Because.”

      “Because what?”

      “Just because.”

Ok, so there _was_ something afoot and his agent was very much in on the afooting.  Marvelous.  Did this, perhaps, have something to do with the text he had from Mycroft that said he was looking forward to their spending the evening together?  The text that ended with… an emoji?  That was like the Queen using a plastic fork at a state dinner.  It simply wasn’t done and if it was, it was certainly just cause for concern.  Or curiosity.  Or both.  They each started with a ‘c’ and made a matched set, which Mycroft would certainly appreciate, so he was going with both, hell and be damned.

      “Do you have an estimate for when the Because might be ending?”

      “Soon.”

      “That was very precise.  Thank you.”

      “I honestly don’t have a to-the-second answer to give, Greg, but when it’s time, I’ll let you know.”

      “Will a heavenly angel blow a fucking horn in your ear to announce the great event?”

      “I hope not.  But maybe I should check my ringtone, just in case, to see if someone added Giant Angel Horn to the list.”

      “I’d sack you, but your mother would track me down and yell at me for impoverishing you into stopping her regular flower delivery.”

      “Mum does love her flowers.  The fact she can’t even grow plastic ones is a sad consequence of this being a dark, cruel universe.”

      “Might be cheaper to simply hire a gardener.”

      “Nope.  Dad won’t have it.”

      “It’d take away from his vegetable space?”

      “Did I show you his prize courgette?”

Anderson got out his phone and flipped to a photo of his father posing next to one of those enormous vegetables that nobody will ever eat, but gardeners boast about to half the village.

      “Very phallic.”

      “I think he knows it, too, that’s why he poses in front of it so often.  Got into the local paper.  Him and his mighty veg right there spread out in full color.”

      “Send a copy to Dolly.  Somehow, I think she’d appreciate it.”

Anderson’s snort of laughter was a suitable punctuation to his incoming text notification and brought an end to the randy squash revelry.

      “Well, my phallic-fancying friend, we have reached Because.”

      “Are you certain?  Best not go off half-cocked.  Or half-courgetted.”

      “Yep, the angelic horn hath tooted and away we go.  Finish your coffee and try not to drip any on yourself.”

      “Do I need to look nice for the Great Becausing?”

      “You need to look human and, right now, you’re scarcely passing muster.”

Greg rubbed his stubbly chin and glanced down at this untucked shirt which hadn’t gotten him tossed out of the café but _had_ earned him a set of pursed lips from the elderly woman ahead of him in line when she’d looked back to see what the fuss was about after he and Anderson walked it.  Since the Because unquestionably involved Mycroft and he easily ticked off a surprising number of the boxes on the Are You an Elderly Woman quiz in the left-on-the-bus ladies’ magazine, perhaps a quick tucking in, paying extra attention during the final coffee quaffing and generally trying to be a _touch_ more presentable was a wise move.

Besides, this was the last real impression Mycroft would have of him, that video Skypey business notwithstanding, so that impression had best be a good one.  Now, where could he find a toothbrush and razor on this street… and was there a bloke selling shirts…

__________

Ok… Anderson sitting in the car, grinning and waving at him as he walked from the car to his door.  That was evidence.  Detectives, or at least those who play one on film, needed to take evidence seriously.  The current evidence said that the likelihood of a surprise of some significance laying on the other side of this door was high.  From his perspective, the surprise could be good or bad but _Mycroft’s_ perspective would undoubtedly have classed any possibility as a good surprise, even those involving  returning his evil parents to London for everyone to sit and watch a selection of his films, all of which would have a nice assortment of his filthiest sex scenes so the man of the hour melted in a puddle of ‘oh god why me’ and lost his utility to the human race.  Must remember to be jubilant and excited no matter what the now-worrisome Because brought to his life, though, because anything else would hurt Mycroft’s feelings and that was at the very top of his Not Allowed! list of offenses.

Evincing his best, ‘oh, just coming home and expecting nothing to greet me when I open the door’ attitude, Greg strode into his house and smacked his lips a couple of times as he pondered how exactly to react to the sight of his main living space reappointed into a… ok, there were large potted plants along the periphery of a spacious cleared area which hosted two beach chairs and… beach chairs.  Perched on what looked like a large expanse of tan bedsheets, on top of which was also a colorful blanket and large hamper sitting in wait.  Was that The Chairmen of the Board making merry on his music system?

      “Gregory!  Surprise!”

Mycroft was in beach shorts.  Pale blue beach shorts with colorful tropical fish.  Pale blue beach shorts with colorful tropical fish into which his matching pale blue button up was tucked into.  And he wore sandals with socks.  This was not the Because he was expecting, but it was the Because he was oh-so wanting…

      “I am surprised!”

      “Huzzah!  I so hoped you would be taken unawares.”

Mycroft’s smile was brighter than the sun that would have been beaming if they had been on an actual beach, but without the worries about skin cancer and wrinkles.

      “Not a single spark of awareness to be found anywhere.  This is…”

      “Are you pleased?”

The look of hope on Mycroft’s face was so pure and perfect that Greg simply fell into doing The Twist and laughed at Mycroft’s happy applause.

      “I am so relieved, Gregory.  I… I have attire for you, if you…”

      “Got me some beach togs!  Oh yes, I’ll gladly get into that.  Can’t have you being the only one looking absolutely perfect for a day at the beach.”

      “I _am_ , as they say, very much in character.”

Greg would find out later, from behind-the-scene sources, just how much shopping by how many people had to occur to pull together a beach outfit that met with Mycroft’s approval but, for now, he was content simply to marvel at the sight.  

      “I’d swear you were lifted straight from Malibu.  And, might I ask, what’s in that hefty hamper?”

      “Many delicious things.”

      “Yes!  Might some of those delicious things be potable?”

      “The certainly might.  However, I have an alternate selection ready to prepare that contain components requiring refrigeration and, also, a supply of ice.”

      “Fruity drinks that refresh as well as swivel your brain?”

      “Perhaps.”

Look at the smile on your face, Mycroft Holmes.  There’s not a puppy alive that’s as cute as you right now and I am the luckiest man in the world.

      “Perfect!  This is absolutely perfect, in every way.”

      “Well, I must admit… I simply could not bring myself… to create a sand-filled space was…”

Was certainly a nightmare thought in his poor writer’s head and that he’d even contemplated it was saying a lot.

      “I think the lack of sand is probably for the best.  It would have been brutal getting it in here and back out again and who needs that when you’re simply hoping for a nice surprise.  This is better, much better.  Nice sand-colored bedsheets are a very successful, and tidy, substitute.”

      “I am glad you agree.  I thought it was most clever of me.”

      “Very clever and very thoughtful.  Really, I’m astonished you went to this much trouble, but I absolutely love you for it.  Kiss?”

Greg made kissy faces at Mycroft, who sniggered and hurried forward to grant Greg’s request.

      “This is the best part of it all.  Kisses from the beachiest boy to ever grace the sand and surf.”

      “I _am_ becoming a most proficient kisser.”

      “That you are.  Shall I change now then help make some fruity drinks for us?”

      “Yes, I am finding myself quite parched.”

Greg gave Mycroft another kiss, then took each of Mycroft’s hands ready to drop them if Mycroft was uncomfortable, and started doing The Twist again, using their linked hands to encourage Mycroft to follow suit, which the writer did after a few long moments of puzzling out exactly what it was that Greg was attempting to do.  Watching his lover do a small-scale version of the dance with a growing shy smile was a thing to warm Greg’s heart for a long time to come.  Certainly as long as it would take to return to London to lead him through another dance to celebrate his homecoming.

__________

      “This is the life.  Frankie and Annette on the telly, a full picnic laid out, fruity drinks, fans giving the perfect cool breeze to enjoy… I’ve got a couple of rooms I haven’t known what to do with, but I’m thinking a beach experience might be just the thing.”

      “Shall you install the swimming pool you were contemplating?”

      “Ooh!  Good idea.  Pool, with a bar area, comfy chairs, music… maybe that can be my present to myself when we wrap filming on our project.  You’ll help me design it?”

      “Of course.  I am not practiced in overseeing such a design project, but I have little doubt my aesthetic sensibilities will compensate for any technical naivete.”

      “I’m sure it will.  And you’ll swim with me?”

      “I… we shall be alone, correct?”

      “Absolutely.  Now, I do have a suspicion that if I have a pool and your parents are visiting when you’re in London…”

      “Mummy would leap in fully clothed.  Or the polar opposite.”

      “Are those retina scan things real?  I could have one installed so just you and me can unlock it, so we don’t have to be worried about having a dip and your mum comes storming in to have a naked swim while your dad reads.”

      “I shall begin researching the issue tomorrow.”

      “Maybe ask Sherlock.  That seems a sciency thing he might like.  Leave out the bit about your mum and her nudist leanings.”

      “That would be for the best.”

Greg laughed and Mycroft listened to the sound as he took a long sip of his drink which was prepared exactly as the recipe stated and exceptionally delicious, which had surprised him to some degree as he was not normally one for something so… flamboyant.  But, it was one of the many idiosyncrasies he was learning about himself with respect to his relationship with Gregory.  For nobody else would he be wearing such an outlandish outfit and… enjoying it.  And sitting on the floor!  Well, in a low-slung chair so his bottom was _near_ the floor, but one could not deny the hypothetical aspects of the situation.

It was odd how different the world felt with Gregory.  He could not point to a specific example of _how_ it was different, but that did not alter the truth of the observation.  The world was… better.  Not in all ways, but in some and that was significant.  He had, he would admit, felt a mote of envy when Sherlock found John.  Further, he saw the effect on his brother because of it, an effect that was gladdening.  Had others noticed an effect on _him_?  Was there any discernable sign that his world had shifted so acutely?  Would someone know, meeting him after a period of separation, that he was now a man in love?  A man partnered with someone who held up a new lens through which to view life and what it meant to be alive?  Perhaps.  Perhaps not.  Neither changed the fact that such _had_ occurred and he was reveling in it.

      “I’ll miss you, Mycroft.  I’m going to miss you desperately when I’m away.  It won’t be the same talking to you over the phone or computer, but I’m going to need regular doses of it anyway because I think I’ve become a bit addicted to your sense of humor.”

      “It _is_ one of my most stellar traits.”

This time, both men giggled and Greg used the break in the action to pause their film, gallantly take Mycroft’s empty glass and stroll to the kitchen to make another batch of their potent concoction.  He _was_ going to need regular doses of this, though, that was simply a fact.  Not the rum-rich tiki drink, but time with Mycroft, just the two of them, enjoying each other’s company.  It wasn’t something he, honestly, craved with his other relationships.  Not that he avoided it, but given the choice of doing something with the other person like going out to dinner and then to a show or simply snuggling under a blanket on the sofa and reading with them, he would have always chosen the former.

With Mycroft, he was very content to choose the latter.  He’d definitely like to support Mycroft sufficiently that the former was an easy option if the mood struck, of course, because there was a tremendous number of cultural events going on in London that Mycroft would likely appreciate, but it wasn’t an immediate need.  No matter how simple or complex, their time would be a source of happiness and, even if he could only hop a train and spend a day or two with his lover in between filming or publicity days, it would a magical thing.

      “Here you are, love.  A fresh drink and may I provide you with a small nibble to accompany said fresh drink?”

      “You may.  The sea air bolsters my appetite.”

Maybe one day he could convince Mycroft to work on a screenplay.  Something for a film in the style of the old comedies of the 1930’s where smart and witty dialogue was the star and actors needed real talent to give their lines exactly the right presentation to sell the humor.  Not that he would star in it, of course.  That would be silly.  He’d never think of a thing like that.  Mycroft might, though.  And, what Mycroft was inspired to do all on his own, without any subtle urging or encouragement, was none of this sad actor’s business, not in the slightest…

__________

      “Ugh… no.”

Mycroft looked over to Greg and followed his eyes to the rocket-ship shaped clock on the wall.

      “Ah, the hour has grown late by your schedule.”

      “Yeah, it has.  I don’t have an early flight, fortunately, but I always have to leave earlier than a normal person might because of the crowd that’s inevitably there to greet me.”

      “Having seen evidence of this on the television and personally, I must laud your fortitude.”

      “Thanks!  Sometimes I get a break going through security since they recognize me or realize that moving me through quickly will reduce the mayhem that erupted when people _inside_ the airport realized I’m there, but I can’t say I’m unhappy for it, especially when I can follow that with a dart into a private lounge for a little peace and quiet.  It’s one of the very few perks I take advantage of, but I take shameful advantage of that whenever I can.”

      “Then you certainly require your rest to brave the drudgery of tomorrow.  Let us tidy up here so that might be accomplished.”

      “Already?”

      “I know how greatly you value being… perky… for your fans, Gregory, and that will not be accomplished without sufficient rest.”

      “But…”

Greg reached out and made a grabby hands/hug me gesture at Mycroft, complete with a needy toddler face and sad puppy sounds.

      “Gregory, are you suddenly unwell?”

The fact Mycroft was serious turned Greg’s whimpering into giggling and he found himself hoping that Mycroft never grew _too_ skilled at realizing when he was being ridiculous.

      “No, I was just expressing my upset at the night ending.”

      “The night ended two hours ago.  It is nearly 2:00 am.”

      “I mean… I’m using the term night to refer to the dark hours of the day, not the part of the day that turns over at midnight.”

      “Ah, I see.  An interesting contrast of perspectives.  In any case, and for your information…”

Greg wisely remained silent while Mycroft rose to his feet with an uninterpretable smile, smoothed his shirt and checked it was still properly tucked, then lowered his hand to help Greg to his feet.

      “… I have brought with me my pyjamas.”

Mycroft smiled smugly at Greg’s shocked gasp, made especially shock-laden by the gasper to reward his lover for the proud announcement.

      “You did?”

      “Yes.”

      “It’s a bit early for you to contemplate pyjama-clad activities, isn’t it?”

      “I rose extremely early so that I would be fatigued at a suitable hour.”

      “How early?”

      “Slightly before eleven in the morning.”

      “Gadzooks!”

      “It was a harsh moment when the alarm sounded, however, I prevailed.”

      “I am honored by your sacrifice.”

      “I knew you would recognize the seriousness of my commitment.  I…”

The self-satisfied look on Mycroft’s face faltered slightly and Greg stepped closer, holding out his pinkie, which Mycroft quickly linked with his own.

      “I… I have pondered what sharing a bed with you would entail, Gregory.  Whether… whether it would be something I could easily do or something that might require…”

      “An easing-in period.”

      “Correct.  It is not a thing I have done in this life, nor is it a thing I have contemplated with due seriousness at any point until we met.  I would like to make a start, either way, tonight.”

Most men would have used tonight to shag their lovers senseless, but Greg felt a surge in his heart that made it clench like it was gripped by an iron fist because, for Mycroft, simply sleeping with another person was a staggeringly big step.  An intimacy that was so fraught with possibilities to discomfort him the mere desire to give it a try was a statement of love Greg was, frankly, humbled to receive.

      “Then a start we will make!  Short bit of work in here, then we… ok, I do have to change my sheets because the Arsenal ones are on the bed and…”

      “I have already done that.”

      “Oh.  Very efficient of you.”

      “I thought so.  Your selection of linens is… you did not exaggerate the degree of childishness they demonstrate.”

      “No, no need to exaggerate because the truth is blinding enough.”

      “I settled upon an option I did not find wholly objectionable.”

      “The plain ones?”

      “No, for I did feel there should be some degree of compromise in my choice.  Prepare for Poe.”

      “My sheets with the whole text of the Raven written on them, along with a big fucking raven in the middle and one each on the pillows?”

      “I do admire his literary efforts.”

      “That’s a brilliant choice.  Your compromising skills are top notch.”

      “I agree.”

Holding up a finger on his free hand for Mycroft to kiss, Greg gave their pinkies a squeeze, then dragged the writer over to the kitchen to begin returning liquor bottles to the cupboards while he dashed back to pack up the picnic hamper and retrieve their glasses.  He’d put plates and glasses in the dishwasher so Mycroft wouldn’t fret about them being in the sink, then… who knows?  Could be a night with his Mycroft by his side or a night where Mycroft slept soundly in his own room after they read for another half hour or so, propped by pillows against the headboard, and shared a goodnight kiss.

Honestly it didn’t matter.  That’s how he knew, to the depths of his soul, that he’d found the man that was right for him.  And one day, maybe they’d get the chance to sleep in Mycroft’s own bed, which he still imagined to be an enormous four-poster beast that belonged in a museum.  Maybe with bed curtains, so they could do all sorts of filthy things that not even the bats flying by the windows could see.  He’d feel terrible if their filthiness distracted some poor bat and it splatted against the house.  Nursing an injured bat back to health would certainly kill the mood…

__________

Resetting the cuteness scale to accommodate Mycroft in his very prim pyjamas… the scale now went up to eleven.  Maybe fifteen.

      “Those are… majestic.”

      “They are one of my favorite sets.  Provided blue is not bedeviling that day, of course.”

A navy blue, white pinstriped set of jim jams adorned Mycroft’s lean figure, as did a pair of navy bedroom slippers on his feet.  Greg was feeling very relieved that he’d dug to find an actual set of pyjamas in his wardrobe rather than the tatty pair of shorts and shirt he might normally wear if a bit of clothing was warranted.  Though his were sadly gruel-grey and in no manner jaunty or cute.  However, one adorable man in their combined lives was more than enough.

      “It’s become one of mine, now, too.  Want to hop in bed first?”

      “Why?”

      “So you can take the side you like, do any pillow arranging you want to do, check the weight of the blankets so I can change them, if necessary, see if the temperature feels right or if you want me to flip on the fans up there to give you a touch of breeze.”

Mycroft looked up at the very high ceiling and smiled at the industrial-looking fans standing at the ready, giving Greg a tiny peck on the cheek before thinking a moment and climbing slowly into the bed, on the left side, and sitting upright with his legs nestled under the bed coverings.

      “Perhaps the addition of a small blanket, preferably of natural fiber, on my feet.  They do become chilled at night.”

      “I think I help you with that.   Let’s see… I’ve got this one.  It’s… I have no idea what it’s made from.  Can you tell?”

Greg brought the blanket close to Mycroft who wrinkled his nose and waved it away.

      “It is redolent with the effluvia of the petrochemical industry.”

      “And that’s bad.”

      “Very.”

      “Ok… this one in the effluvia bin and… ooh, that’s fairly vibrant…”

      “I will not tolerate purple on my toes.”

      “Even if it’s on top of a blanket and sheet before it reaches your toes?”

      “Yes.”

      “Something I will remember for the future.  Ah!  This one should work.  I’m fairly certain, let me check the tag, yes!  Did some filming in Scotland and bought this at a little shop Anderson tried to keep me out of because he knew I’d start slinging money in every direction if a dear old person was running things, which there was, so money got slung and on scads of wool.  I think I’m responsible for a new breed of naked Scottish sheep.”

Presenting the creamy wool blanket to Mycroft, Greg watched him inspect it as if it was a critical replacement part for a sickly nuclear reactor and finally nod his approval.

      “Great!  And here we are, right over those cold toes of yours.  Anything else?”

      “Hmmmm…”

      “Take your time.  Do a thorough check.”

      “Such is assured.  The bed is acceptable in firmness…”

      “Good.”

Mycroft hesitantly leaned back to lay his head on the pillow and moved both the pillow and his head about a little to test various positions.

      “The pillow falls at the lower end of fluffiness that I prefer, but the overall largeness compensates somewhat to deliver to it a passing mark.”

      “Big pillow but could be a little fluffier.  Mental note made.”

      “I detect no unacceptable odors.  At present.”

Why’s he looking at me?

      “Uh… am I stinky?”

      “Not currently, however, one’s odor does become more marked after a night of sleep and, of course, there is the flatulence issue.”

That was actually a _major_ issue.  The Farts of Greg Lestrade were on a few countries’ prohibited weapons list.

      “I’m sorry.”

      “It is a basic fact of human existence, however, I am hopeful that I shall be asleep during any offending occurrences so they go unnoticed.”

      “Let’s hope for a sound night’s sleep, then!  Any other offenses I need to investigate before I crawl in next to you?”

      “Shall the level of quiet remain unchanged?”

      “Yes, actually.  I’m not sure I would hear an air raid siren in here.”

      “Then you may join me.”

There wasn’t a monarch now or in the past who could have approached Mycroft’s somber, imperial tone.  Greg wanted to pinch himself to make certain his extreme good fortune was not a dream.

      “I shall now begin the joining.”

See, love?  I can do imperial, too.  Not as well as you, but I have the master to learn from, so I anticipate rapid improvement.  And… now I’m feeling stupid because it’s hard to follow up a marginally-proficient imperial proclamation with a properly solemn and majestic getting into bed, so this went balls-up fast.  However in bed is better than out of bed for a balls-upping…

      “There.  Now, what suggestions do you have for me to make this as comfortable as possible for you?”

      “The bed is laudably sizeable, however, I would appreciate some consideration of my territorial boundaries.”

      “Does that mean the imaginary line down the center of the bed?”

      “It does.  At least for the actual purposes of sleeping.”

      “Meaning there _can_ be territorial incursions before or after sleeping.”

      “Yes… possibly.”

      “I’ll follow your lead for that one, then.  Anything else?”

      “Let me think… are you one to talk in your sleep?”

      “Not that I know of.  I’m not much of a snorer, either.”

      “Excellent.  I have no doubt I shall remember a bevy of things later, however, I find myself bereft of further questions at this point.”

      “Ok, then… a little territorial invasion and then some sleep?”

      “Invasion?”

      “I budge over there to give you a goodnight kiss.”

      “Oh, a stellar idea.  Should I… wriggle forward and meet you halfway or prop myself on an elbow?”

Giving lover a goodnight kiss quickly becoming a work of choreography worthy of Alvin Ailey.

      “Let me think.  How’s your physical contact threshold right now?  More than just a quick peck or pinkie squeeze, I mean.”

      “I… oh.  Moderate?”

      “Ok, then just lay there and let me do the wriggling.”

Greg brought great honor to the term wriggling as he moved towards Mycroft who watched him with curious eyes until Greg stopped a small distance from Mycroft’s reclining form.  Waiting for the small nod before reaching out to lay a hand on Mycroft’s waist, Greg then leaned in to begin a kiss that drew Mycroft closer like a moth to a flame, to run his hand across Greg’s chest and shuffle a foot forward to run along Greg’s much warmer one.   

      “Gregory!  You are hot!”

      “Well, thank you.  Always nice to hear you like the way I look.”

      “That was not what I said.”

      “Wasn’t it?”

      “No.  I did not say you were handsome, I said you were hot.”

Applying Mycroft translator!

      “You’re talking about body temperature.”

      “To what else would that statement apply?”

      “Ummm… it’s also sort of slang for a person being physically attractive.”

      “Yes, now that you remind me, it is.  I do apologize.  However, the fact remains that your feet are most toasty.”

      “Yeah, that’s generally the case for most of me.”

      “Given the insulatory properties of the blankets and your excess of body heat, the extra blanket on my feet shall not be necessary.”

      “Ok… put it on the floor.”

      “The floor?  Surely you jest.”

Greg began to grin, then laugh, then roll on his back to continue to laugh while he used his bum and shoulders to crab-scuttle back to his side of the bed to stand and start the process of removing the blanket, carefully folding it and returning it to is former resting place.  Was this how he’d expected his first night sleeping with Mycroft to go?  Yes, actually.  This was fitting right in with anything and everything he might expect.  Anything and everything that made him happy, too.  Every new experience with Mycroft was a joy and moving forward slowly was allowing him to savor each and every step like he never did before.

Besides, there was a full 40% chance that the blanket business was a distraction from the fact that Mycroft had been getting hard and didn’t want that little fact known because he wasn’t confident or comfortable enough to act on it yet.  That was alright.  There were other nights for that.  And mornings.  And all the hours in between…


	47. Chapter 47

      “Oh heavens…”

Mycroft carefully wiggled his toes and the motion provided further tactile evidence of his exceedingly dire situation.  Dire, perhaps, was a tiny overstatement, as was the exceedingly, however, the word would do for now since said situation appeared to be an immutable one, at the moment, and that was sufficient to promote discombobulation.

His feet were captured.  Admittedly, for the capture to occur, they would have had to traverse beyond the negotiated territorial boundaries, a clear violation of their compact and one for which Gregory bore no responsibility, however, he had enacted an unutterably cruel retribution for the incursion.  It was a… foot sandwich!   With his own feet as the meat and cheese.  Ooooooohhh…

      “Huhwhtfkoffslping.”

Egad!  He had verbalized his warble!  Given there was nothing for it, after the fact, he may as well capitalize on the moment.

      “Gregory…”

      “Uhno.”

      “Yes, you _are_ Gregory and I want my feet.”

      “k”

      “So… commence.”

      “k”

      “Gregory, you are not commencing.”

      “k”

Perhaps Gregory was not as awake as he had thought.  This could be another moment upon which to capitalize.  Not that the first proved fruitful, but hope springs eternal.

      “Gregory, lift your right foot so I might… inspect your toenails.”

Greg, instead, curled his feet so Mycroft’s were more tightly held.

      “That was absolutely the opposite of my request, Gregory Lestrade.”

      “mmm?”

If a pin dropped onto a pallet of pure cotton it would wake Mycroft from the soundest sleep.  Apparently, this was not the case for others of the human species.

      “Gregory, are you consciously processing any of my words?”

      “k”

Question asked, answer received.  Options… pull feet from Gregory’s clutches.  If _clutches_ was the proper term when the clutching was accomplished with feet and not hands.  That might, however, unduly disturb Gregory’s rest and the alarm indicated that there remained a full fifty minutes until he was due to wake.  Convincing Gregory to loosen his proverbial grip had failed.  Was it possible to lift Gregory’s foot?  A gentle lift, just enough to extract his own feet, yet provide a bare minimum of the jostling that might bring him fully awake.

Of course, that would mean… touching.  The issue of foot touching was not a new one for their relationship, however, it had never been a fully-consummated act.  It could be accomplished, perhaps, from above the bed coverings though the potential for the foot slipping from his fingers could not be ignored.  The slap of impact between the dropped foot and his own would certainly startle Gregory awake and that would not do.  The option of simply remaining Gregory’s prisoner was, of course, available but it… already he could imagine the incipience of perspiration on his feet and lower legs.  It was a horrifying thing…

      “Whuzhrfyng?”

      “The perspiration!”

The not-awake Greg reached over to there-there pat Mycroft’s arm, then grumbled and wriggled further into his happy sleep, still holding fast to Mycroft’s feet.

      “Marvelous.”

The long sigh did nothing to extricate Mycroft’s feet, but it did clear his mind to begin plotting his next move.  Perhaps a strategically-planned pulling _was_ the best course of action.  If he mentally pictured the configuration of their entwined feet, he should be able to calculate the best vector of removal so as to cause the least upset.

Hmmm… his mental picture proved the vector was… tricky.  Not due to complexity because vectors were, by definition, simple, however, the simplicity was to be achieved only through some acrobatic effort on his part.  However, the act must be done smoothly, in a single motion and there was no manner in which that might be accomplished without… drat.  Onward for England…

Mycroft slowly began moving his body in a stiff, sweeping fashion, like the minute-hand of a clock ticking back the time, until he was perpendicular to Greg, face up on the mattress, with his head and shoulders dangling off the edge of the bed so his palms could… drat.

He must touch the floor!  That was worse than touching a foot!  Must reverse course!

Cannot reverse course!  Too much weight dangling off the bed.  Net torque working against him like a blackguard and now… now… now…

      “Harrow, Gregory!  I am imperiled!”

The shout had Greg leaping out of bed like a man prepared to fight a home invader, which handily freed Mycroft’s feet.  Of course, without the linchpin keeping him from slipping, Mycroft gave an affrighted shriek as he slid onto the floor into a credible half-backflip as his legs pivoted over his folded-in body, leaving him jackknifed on the ground with anxiety rising like flood water.

      “AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!”

Still in the surreal miasma of half-asleep mixed with adrenaline onrush, Greg’s brain was fairly useless, but his legs decided that being closer to the problem, which seemed to be on the floor, was a spectacular idea, so they fell to bended knee, encouraged his hands to follow suit and crawled at full speed over to Mycroft who was looking very much like the photo of Greg the writer had roundly pooh-poohed the night before.

      “What’s wrong?”

      “Help me!”

      “Do what?”

      “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!”

      “Ok…”

Greg changed position to a squat, then lifted Mycroft off of the floor, ran him to the bath, placed him in the center of the enormous sunken tub, raced to the kitchen to grab two cans of orange Fanta and a glass, dashed back and began pouring the fizzy drink with hands trembling so strongly that it was taking his full concentration to keep the cans mostly positioned over the glass.

For his part, Mycroft was teetering on a full shutdown given the myriad of assaults on his senses, however, one thing was keeping him from taking the plunge.

      “Gregory?  Whatever are you doing?”

      “Orange, right?”

      “That… yes.  It is orange.”

      “Ok.  Here.”

Greg shoved the glass at Mycroft and his wide, desperate eyes oddly helped draw Mycroft one more step back from the cliff face.

      “Why?”

      “Ummmmm… it helps?”

      “I fell on the floor.”

      “Yeah.  Here.”

The responsibility of accepting the glass dragged Mycroft back one more step, as his urge to fulfill his expected role in the ‘here, drink this’ ritual overrode his raging confusion as to why the ritual was occurring in the first place.

      “What else, Mycroft… ummm… want me to leave?”

Mycroft’s thoughts were pinging around his brain like a ball in a pachinko machine and it was all the worse since Greg was usually the one grounded in practical reality like a tree was grounded into the earth.  This was completely the opposite of grounded.  A half-inflated balloon escaping to sprint and sputter across a room was closer to the mark.

      “Why?”

      “So… you can… do.”

The balloon had collided with a malcontented cat, who was now hissing, spitting and flailing about trying to find its sneaky foe and separate it from its cowardly life.

      “Do what?”

      “I have no idea.  And that’s fine!  It’s not for me to know and I’m fine with that.  I’ll leave.  Let me know if you need more Fanta or a blanket or something because you’re only in pyjamas and you’ll probably take chill in the tub.  You know, I’ll get that blanket now, so you don’t have to worry about it later.”

Greg ran like a madman back into the bedroom and came back with the same wool blanket that had first graced Mycroft’s feet and dithered a moment before carefully placing it, still folded, on Mycroft’s lap, then began to literally tip toe backwards as if he was scared to trip a vibration sensor that would ignite a bomb and render them both to pieces.

When he was out of the bathroom, Mycroft sat stock still on the bottom of the tub, with his Fanta in his hands, his blanket on his lap and his mind adrift in a vast field of uncertainty, but solidly away from the abyss of a shut-out world.  It was very difficult, oddly, to shut out the world when you were the center of a puzzle that your partner had spun like a cocoon around you.

Cocoon… that could be the key.  Tracing back… it began when Gregory was awakened by his perfectly reasonable and proper exclamation of disgust at being, first, on Gregory’s floor and, second, in a highly inelegant position.  From Gregory’s perspective… his partner was loudly, yet with complete justification, expressing his dissatisfaction while in a situation one would not, in any manner, predict for said partner unless something had gone terribly wrong, such as the end of the world or… Oh, dear, dear Gregory… whatever have I done to deserve you…

Mycroft smiled and shook his head, merrily drinking the remainder of his beverage because, though it was not explicitly required, it had a familiar, soothing property that was welcome after the floor ordeal.  Then, he gazed a long moment at the door of the bath, which had been kept open a crack to hear any requests he might have, before taking the blanket under his arm, standing and making his way back into the bedroom where Greg sat on the bed, his mobile in his hands, busily scrolling through something on the screen so he was oblivious to Mycroft’s entrance.

      “Gregory?”

      “Mycroft!  Oh love, I am so sorry, I didn’t hear you.  What do you need.  Just tell me and…”

Mycroft shook his head and sat next to Greg, glancing at the phone and finding, to his surprise, a long string of flights information.

      “You are researching flight data?”

      “I… yeah.  It won’t be too hard for me to get a later flight, so I can still be on site when they need me and…”

Mycroft leaned over and placed a small, quick kiss on Greg’s lips that silenced his worried partner and acted as a tiny token of his immense gratitude to the man who would act without thinking to make him comfortable and safe.

      “I am fine, Gregory.  I believe you have somewhat misinterpreted the situation, though I admit it was not one that was, perhaps, able to be properly interpreted by anyone.  Including me.”

      “You’re not… having an… upset?”

      “No, though I can see with some ease why you might have thought that very thing.  And I am happy that you took swift and decisive action for, if I had been in the grip of a… poor moment… I can assure you that remaining on the floor in such an undignified manner would have escalated the situation precipitously.”

Greg’s body visibly relaxed at Mycroft’s words and he set aside his phone with a small laugh at himself for acting like an expectant father whose 9-months pregnant wife suffered a bout of indigestion.

      “I’m still sorry, though.  I know you don’t like… I can’t imagine being picked up like that made matters any better.”

      “To be honest, I was more shocked and confused than distressed, though the entire situation was most distressing.  I fell on the floor.”

      “You said that.  Bad dream?”

      “No, I simply… my feet were imprisoned.”

      “But they’re still on your legs.”

      “They were imprisoned by your own feet.”

      “Oh!  Yeah, I thought I felt something cold wiggle in there at some point.  Smart of your feet to take action when they were cold.  Snakes do that, don’t they?  Find a warm place when they’re cold and sometimes it’s a poor bloke off tenting in the wilderness who isn’t as keen as the snake when he wakes up with a long, slithery friend sharing his bedroll.”

      “It _was_ a troublous thing to which to wake.”

      “Is that a made up word?”

      “Which?”

      “Troublous.”

      “No.”

      “Ok, just checking.  I still don’t understand why you were on the floor, though.”

      “it was the outcome of my attempt to liberate my feet.”

      “That’s a fairly unexpected outcome.”

      “It was.”

      “Maybe, next time, pull your feet out without falling on the floor.  Or, give me a poke and tell me to give you back your feet.”

      “I did not want to disturb you.”

      “I doubt you will.  I sleep hard.”

      “Yes, I have come to realize that.  I shall remember for next time.”

      “Next time, huh.  I take it, then, that, feet aside, you enjoyed or at least tolerated being in bed with me.”

It occurred to Mycroft that he had yet to give that issue any thought, so frightful was The Foot Crisis.

      “I scarcely gave that any thought.”

      “Oh.”

Greg’s crestfallen look perplexed Mycroft , but a few wisps of instinct guided him in the right direction.

      “However, that is a positive thing, for a negative experience would absolutely have occupied my thoughts to a notable degree.”

      “Really?  Oh, that’s great, because I was a bit worried you’d not want to do it again.”

      “I do.  The foot debacle aside, it was… I slept.  Had I been discontent in any fashion, that would not have been the case.”

Something Mycroft, himself, was only now recognizing.  He had slept.  Not fitfully, but soundly.  That was a hearty endorsement of their bed sharing, and he found himself inexplicably proud of that fact.

      “I won’t lie – I’m relieved to hear that.  I’ve been known to be an active sleeper, even when I’m completely dead to the rest of the world.”

      “You were most considerate and respectful.”

      “Whew!  And, one day, we’ll have the chance to do that in _your_ bed.”

Mycroft wisely kept to himself that he wasn’t certain which was a more trepidatious situation, sleeping in an unfamiliar bed or having someone in his very familiar bed.  But, he _would_ have the chance to make that determination.  Of that, he was certain.

      “That we will.  Now… given we are both awake, shall I inspect your luggage?”

From any other person on Earth, Greg would have assumed that was innuendo, however, the odds were wholly on the opposite side.

      “Think I forgot to pack something?”

      “It is always a possibility and there is little worse than being in a situation where one has not the simple necessities of life.”

Yes, he could remind Mycroft that he’d be in a luxury hotel where any necessity could be had with the snap of your fingers, but why deny the man something that was guaranteed to make him happy.

      “That’s very true.  Inspect away!  I’d appreciate the extra set of eyes, especially ones as gorgeous as yours.”

Mycroft’s shy, pleased smile warmed Greg through like the cozy blanket that sat folded on his bed, and gained Mycroft a soft kiss of his own as a reward.  Normally, when Greg woke after a night with someone in his bed, there was a bit of pillow talk, then sex, then more pillow talk and either a quick shower and goodbye or a quick shower, a little breakfast and goodbye, depending on how much time was available and how well things had gone the night before.

He’d never had a morning start like this one, though, which proved his life had been a poor and feeble thing until he met Mycroft.  But, the idea of more mornings like this… the future was a bright, shining thing and wasn’t it great that he’d have someone to make certain he always had the required necessities to enjoy that brightness to the fullest…

__________

      “By the scrolls of Alexandria…”

Mycroft looked positively aghast at the large, excited crowd waiting for Greg at the airport and understood more than he ever desired why his partner had to arrive at such locations far earlier than expected.  Anderson, however, looked bored with the chaos, as usual.

      “All these poor people hoping to catch a glimpse of the ugliest man in London.  Greg, you’re sort of a monster, did you know that?”

Greg grinned cheekily at his agent who waved it off, again, as usual, but granted Greg points for ensuring that Mycroft was happy to stay in the limo and not venture a single step onto the pavement, and not only because of the questions that might have prompted in the press.  One experience with Greg’s fans was more than enough for the poor man.  Besides, he’d already endured a night in Greg’s bed, which was more than enough human suffering for one day.

      “Maybe I should do a horror film, next.  I’d make a good monster, I think.”

      “I’ll see what I can stir up for scripts, the more full-face prosthetics, the better.  Mycroft, we have to leave you now, which I can’t imagine you’ll mind since it’ll free you from this one and his nonsense.”

      “Gregory’s nonsense has been at a laudably moderate level today, actually.”

      “Lucky you!  Come on, Greg.  Time to pay the bills.”

Anderson got out of the limo, but partially closed the door behind him to give Mycroft and Greg a last moment of privacy.

      “Well, love, off I go.  I’ll let you know I got there safely.”

      “I will also keep watch on the news for reports of an airplane disaster.”

      “That’s… thinking ahead.  Take care of yourself?”

      “Of course.  I expect you shall do the same.”

      “I will.  Kiss?”

Greg made the most exaggerated kissy face possible and Mycroft snorted in faux exasperation before giving him a slow, lingering one that would easily keep them both with fond memories while Greg was away.

      “Well, here I go.”

      “Courage, Gregory.”

What Greg needed more than courage was a healthy supply of pens and time and, fortunately, he had a plentitude of both.  With a final quick peck on Mycroft’s cheek, Greg stepped out of the limo to the eruption of cheers that made Mycroft cringe and feel very thankful that his own admirers were not quite so… feral.  However, his Gregory was comporting himself admirably, as was to be expected. The man truly appreciated his supporters and took pains to demonstrate it.  That was a sign of good character.  Almost as good as respecting the territorial boundaries of one’s bedmate…

__________

      “That was a proper mob.  A polite one, but they certainly wanted a piece of your plump arse.”

Anderson sighed as he took a seat in the VIP lounge and was glad they had a little time before the flight, so Greg could catch his breath and grab a bite to eat.  Airport food wasn’t fantastic, even for the rich and famous, but it wasn’t quite as abysmal as what you got _on_ the plane, first-class seats not being much of an exception to that universal rule.

      “That was a good one, wasn’t it?  Did you notice how much interest there was in the new film?  That little murder caper certainly boosted interest in one Mr. Diogenes Bell.”

      “It didn’t hurt.  And speaking of the stalwart detective, expect to dive in deep as soon as we return.  I hear they’re in talks with Greengrass to direct, so be ready to start with character prep, not just talking to Mycroft, straight away.”

      “Paul Greengrass… nice choice.  Knows big-budget and small-budget work and is smart as hell.  Think he’ll take it?”

      “I don’t know, I just got that tidbit yesterday and haven’t had time to put out any feelers.  I’ll start that while you’re working on your tan.”

      “Not this time.  I need to be pale to play Bell.”

      “You won’t be filming the second you step off the plane, you know.”

      “Yeah, but…I want to be properly pasty when we _do_ start and when they start kitting me up with potential wardrobe choices.  It makes a difference.”

      “True.”

      “Besides… Bell’s an indoors person.  The books are very specific that he avoids going outside whenever possible.”

      “Please tell me you’re not going method.  I am not going to put up with that shit for love nor money.”

      “No, but I _will_ need to do things differently for this role.  Can’t just swagger about and shake said plump arse for the camera.  See what you can find for availability with some of the acting coaches we know.  Call in some long-lingering favors if you need to.  I can’t imagine we don’t have our fair share still to barter with from the bygone days.”

      “On it.  And, thinking things through, that may be a very good idea since…”

      “Since what?”

      “Rumor has it…”

      “Fuck you, Anderson.”

      “No, but you may want to fuck the rumor.  Which is someone tasty is interested in the brother-in-law role.”

      “Who?”

      “Firth.”

      “What!  Shit.. that’s great!  And terrible.  He can actually act.  Oh fuck-a-doodle-doo, I definitely have to up my game.  It would be a good part for him, that’s for certain.  There’s a lot of meat on that bone and the brother-in-law is as complex a character as the widow.”

      “Anthea thinks that bit of casting would get Mycroft’s immediate stamp of approval, too.”

      “Ok… this is coming along… fast.  I definitely have to hit the pavement in top gear.”

      “Yes, you will, but that’s nothing new, so no fretting about it.  You do _not_ need any more wrinkles.”

      “True.  Besides, I have enough fretting to do about Mycroft’s interview.  This needs to go well for him.”

      “It will.  I talked to both Henry and Wiggins and they’re aware of how delicate is the situation.  Anthea will pound that into them, too, as we get a little closer to the date.  It helps that Henry already knew about Mycroft’s views on publicity and actually understands, and sympathizes with, them.  Wiggins is anxious to get a look at the haunted murder asylum Mycroft lives in, so he’ll be on his best behavior, which isn’t saying much, I know, but it’s better than nothing.”

      “If it doesn’t, Molly has her gun, so at least they’ll both die and get to haunt the murder asylum as penalty for being bastards.”

      “Ooh, didn’t think of that.  Always good to have someone ready to commit murder on the team.  And now that you’re relaxed and not quavering about your boyfriend’s friendly chat and snap session, it’s likely a good time to announce that you have a party to attend tonight and, no, you can’t wriggle out of it.”

      “Oh, fuck me.  Why?”

      “Because the local officials like to have their photo taken with celebrities and that smooths the path for any little hiccoughs that might occur during filming.”

      “Such an assistant director who is found naked, frolicking in the middle of a busy market because he completely ignored common sense, and medical advice, about mixing certain prescription meds with some freshly-distilled alcohol he bought from a rather sketchy character hanging about the film set?”

      “That would be one example, yes.”

      “If I promise not to do that, can I leave the party early?”

      “No, because you’re the studio’s cash cow and civil-authority show pony, so you have to meet, greet, smile, pose and generally make life easier for everyone else involved.”

      “And a first-light call for tomorrow, right?”

      “ _Before_ first light.  Don’t worry, Gail will be there and she’s always brilliant at hiding your bags and dark circles.”

      “I better buy her a gift just to be certain.”

      “Two.  One for each eye.”

__________

      “Oh, look at you… come here and let me pinch those cheeks!”

Mycroft suffered the motherly cheek-pinching with a modicum of good grace because, he felt, there was sufficient reason to warrant his mother’s demonstrative glee.  He had slept with Gregory.  Successfully planned and executed a going-away evening that ended in Gregory’s bed.  With him in it!  And one that did not end until this morning, so all relevant aspects of the term ‘sleeping together’ were thoroughly and agreeably and met.

      “How was your night, my sweet, amazing son?”

      “Excellent for any and all measurable parameters.”

      “I’m so happy for you, Mycroft.  You’re glowing!  You look so happy you’re bright and glowy as those lights they use to tell jets where to land.”

      “I do feel most luminescent today.  Effervescent, as well.”

      “I have no idea what that is when it’s at home, but it must be good because you’re smiling!  Go tell your dad about your effie thing.  He’ll be so proud.”

Dolly gave Mycroft a one-finger shove towards the little side room that was set aside for Bertie’s use when visiting and beamed widely as he toddled on his way, with a noticeable spring in his step.  Her Mycroft had actually stayed the night without phoning them for advice or to concoct a reason to leave without hurting Greg’s feelings.  And on the first try!  Her poor Bertie had a dreadful time with the whole personal space issue when it came to sleeping and the first try was a complete failure.  Silly boy fell right off the bed trying to pull away his feet when he found them budged up against hers for a bit of warmth!  Ran straight home in his pyjamas he was so embarrassed.  Fortunately, the second time, he wore thick socks and settled that issue once and for all…


	48. Chapter 48

Mycroft smiled as he completed the final circuit through his house and this time, when his hand touched the door of the study, his true and proper study in his true and proper house, it turned the knob so he could walk inside and breathe in the soul-enriching aroma of _home_.  He was home.  Which was in precisely the condition in which he’d left it before his paradoxically heart-shriveling and heart-quickening experience in London.

In truth, once his partner departed, he was more than ready to return here, but it had been agreed he would remain for a further two days, two days which were fully in step with the normal model of his London visits.  Dank, claustrophobic, unsettled…  but, he had endured, as did he always.  Hosting Miss Hawkins and her representative for lunch was not entirely as dreadful as he’d feared, and he _was_ able to accompany his father to a museum exhibition they’d both hoped to see.  It was a rare thing to find assembled such a sizeable number of writing implements and accessories, so that, at least, had brought a touch of interest to those final days.

Now, though, he was home.  Fully settled back into his domicile, his natural habitat, without the distracting influences of his parents or Sherlock.  Everything was righted, centered and… perfect.

      “Done with the inspection, Mr. Holmes?”

And perfection certainly included Mrs. Hudson bearing a tray with his favorite tea and biscuits.  Which were served on the more modest of their Wedgewood.  Excellent.

      “That I am.  Indoors, at least.  The gardeners shall be on premises tomorrow and I shall script a reminder list for them so any veering from my specifications that may have occurred in my absence can be remedied before I tour the grounds.”

      “Very wise.  Have a seat, then, and enjoy something to lift your spirits after the drive.  Molly checked with the constables and there weren’t any problems while you were away, so that’s a worry not to have and we have plenty in the larder for tonight’s meals, so no worries on that score, either.  Lunch and dinner will be at your normal hour and I’ll have your bedroom and bath freshened before you’ll need it, so you can enjoy a nice sit and settle back into things without a care in the world.  Don’t forget to phone your mum, though, and tell her you made it safely home.”

      “A simple car journey does not warrant reassurance.”

      “When you’re a mum, it very much does.  And remember to ask if they had a safe trip, too.”

      “If she answers the phone, that is already determined.”

      “She’s already asleep, most likely, since she’s a sensible person, unlike some I won’t mention, so just leave a message to show you care.  Ignore my advice at your peril, Mr. Holmes.  And you _know_ how perilous your mum’s peril can be.”

That he did.  Drat.

      “Very well, thank you for the tea.”

Mrs. Hudson glared at Mycroft until he lifted and waggled his mobile at her before she made her exit, which made the situation, again, perfectly familiar and entrenched the sense of being home.  Home was a thousand things, concrete and abstract, and not all were designed to smooth the feathers of the person who actually owned the home in question.

Now, he had a profoundly difficult decision to make which, coincidentally, was phone-related, also.  Should he ring Gregory and announce that he successfully arrived at home?  As expected, Gregory had made certain to provide notification that _he_ had safely survived his plane flight, something that _was_ phone-worthy, unlike a placid car ride, and had been most solicitous with communication in the two days of their separation.  Their schedules were, again, most at-odds, however, there was sufficient overlap for highly-satisfying conversations.

However, it _was_ rather late, and he had no wish to disturb Gregory during his rest.  Perhaps… yes, a small text, just to say hello.  Nothing requiring a long, demonstrative soliloquy of adoration in response or, actually, any response at all.  They were adults, for pity’s sake, and did not need for every moment of the day to have a tangible line of contact.  There… just a small ‘Returned home safely.  I love you.’ to indicate that his dearest remained in his thoughts and those thoughts were pleasant ones.

Now… why has Gregory not replied?

      “Oh, one thing, Mr. Holmes…”

Mrs. Hudson’s small knock and peek into the study earned her a scowl, since Mycroft worried it might prevent him from immediately seeing the bubble for Greg’s reply text, a situation very much not to his liking.

      “Yes, Mrs. Hudson?”

      “I did forget one thing; you got a note in the post from that young man who’s going to interview you.  I meant to bring it with the tea and it completely slipped my mind.  Here you are.”

Mrs. Hudson held the envelope in her customary manner while Mycroft visually inspected it and decided if he would open it himself or have her do it, instead.  The quality of paper, correctly placed and aligned stamp, level and legible handwriting and lack of scent worked in favor of him taking it in his fingers and using his letter opener to slice a tidy gap through which the letter could be removed.  With the Great Letter Protocol a thing of the past, Mrs. Hudson slipped out of the study to continue with her duties, but would keep an ear cocked and ready to catch any advance warning of an eruption should the letter turn out to be a gremlin sent to bite Mr. Holmes’s quiet evening right in the arse.

      “Hmmmmmmmm….”

Mycroft habitually let his eye run over a piece of correspondence before focusing on the meaning of the text to give himself an impression of the person doing the writing.  Handwritten or typed?  Handwritten.  Laudable penmanship or deplorable? Laudable and the same as for the envelope, so a secretary or some other minion had not taken the latter duty for themselves.  Use of page?  Balanced and proportionate.  Writing not cramped at the right-hand margin, indicating poor planning, or sporting more margin than text space, indicating lunacy.  Ink?  Black.  As it should be.  From a good-quality pen.  Also, as it should be.  Word length?  Notable, as one would hope to see for a writer, even of the journalistic type, and in-line with Knight’s printed works, meaning there was no after-the-fact editorial help making the work appear more educated and erudite that it was in reality.  Very well… it was deserving of a proper reading through…

_ Mr. Holmes, _

_ I simply wished to write and thank you for agreeing to an interview about your works and the process of bringing those works to life.  I have received and studied your agent’s various communications and will strictly adhere to them during our time together, however, I did hope to open the door for any measures you wished to take personally prior to my arrival so I fully understand each point on the list and gain insight on what you would like to see come from our time together.  I have included my phone number and email address if you would enjoy an opportunity to cement your expectations and set the overall tone and parameters for our discussion.  Regardless, I look forward, with great anticipation, to our upcoming conversation as I have been an admirer of your works since I first inquired at my local bookshop about the most intelligent mystery they currently had on their shelves and spent the remainder of the day lost in your words.  Your agent has indicated that you keep owl’s hours, which coincides with my typical schedule, so do feel free to phone late in the evening if that works best for you. _

_ With respect, _

_ Henry Knight _

Well, the man’s bookshop was certainly correct in their recommendation.  And… it _could_ be perceived as polite and professional for Knight to offer additional time to minimize the agony of the interview process.  Not that he would act on the offer, of course.  What a ridiculous notion.  One day wasted with nerve-jangling social interaction was more than sufficient for him to want to compound the insult to his sensibilities with a phone call.

Besides, more important matters were at hand.  Had Gregory texted?  No… he had not.  Which was dashed uncooperative of him.  Potentially, he might be asleep, however, just as potentially, he was _not_ , so it was fully reasonable to have significant expectation of a prompt reply.  One did not allow an ‘I love you’ from your paramour to languish in digital purgatory.  It was utterly uncivilized.

Further, Gregory’s incivility had birthed an inexcusable situation - how could he initiate anything, _any_ activity, when he was expected to sit and wait for a text?  _He_ could not be the one failing to reply because he was otherwise engaged.  That simply could not happen.  His good manners would not allow it.

Or could they?  One might construct an argument in favor of tit-for-tat.  It would be a childish and petulant argument, but the cogency would surely override those particular attributes.  However, the obstructive act must be something that he could not easily set aside.  It was not a writing night, so he could not use that as an excuse.  Having a bath, also, would not work and it was far too early for such a thing in any case.  He did not like to visit the bath until at least 4:00 am except in extreme circumstances.  This did not qualify, manners or not.  Pooh.  He, also, could not claim the obligation of entertainment, since his parents were not in residence.  Besides, Gregory was well aware that he would welcome interruption from that particular burden and quickly see through his machinations.

However… might he… well, it _was_ an idea.  Not a stellar one, for obvious reasons, but a serviceable one for this situation.  Besides, the dumbfounded silence from Anthea when he reported on his actions would be something to relish…

__________

      “Hello?”

      “Ah, Mr. Knight, I am happy to have found you awake.  Mycroft Holmes here, I was hoping to accept your invitation for a preliminary discussion concerning your upcoming visit.”

If Mycroft had magical sight, he would observe Henry flailing to get the blanket off his legs so he could grab his pen and paper, fumbling with the telly remote that he’d been using to change channels to find something decent to watch, for a change, tripping over his feet getting to his desk to grab the file on Mycroft Holmes he’d been putting together and trying to keep the exertion and panic out of his voice when he replied.

      “How do you do, Mr. Holmes.  I’m so happy you phoned; I’d love to chat a bit tonight.”

      “Excellent.  I anticipate your preliminary questions will successfully monopolize my phone for, easily, the necessary amount of time.”

Where was his list of ‘helpful hints?’  Here… _Let remarks you don’t quite understand pass with only an acknowledgement of the statement, unless it’s about a specific fact you need.  Mr. Holmes often expresses thoughts in a manner that you may not quite comprehend because he has left unspoken certain details or stem from a particular perspective unique to him._

      “I’m glad to hear that.  I suspect you are relieved to be home after the hullabaloo in London.”

_ Mr. Holmes values, extremely, his privacy and the peace and quiet solitude that privacy brings.  Take steps not to create undue disturbance of that peace and quiet. _

      “I am _greatly_ relieved, that much is certainly the case.  It was… not pleasurable, to say the least, however, there _was_ an academic interest to be taken from the situation, an opportunity to view and experience certain procedures and events that were new to me.  There is benefit in that, I suppose.”

Having seen the decades of coverage of Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade catching a murderer, with the associated pandemonium of the night in question and the media frenzy that followed, Henry was absolutely certain that none of it would sit well with the reclusive author.

      “New experiences can certainly broaden the mind.  You just have to watch out for those that are too unsettling or corrupting, which is something I’ve noticed when I’ve had to go into London for this or that reason.  I understand, theoretically, why some people embrace novelty and what they perceive as excitement, but it’s often a bit too off-putting for my taste.  Unfortunately, I have to document it objectively or from the viewpoint of making their eagerness for whatever is going on understandable, but if my job offered no personal challenge, then what fun would it be?”

Well, it was good to know that Mr. Knight had a proper view of anarchy and hubbub.  Gregory, the uncivilized non-texter, likely thought such things were akin to tea with the Queen.

      “A valid point.  I concede the need for new experiences in one’s life, else one does not grow intellectually, however, there are worthy experiences which enrich and those that degrade or are simply too disordered to bring much to one’s life beyond chaos.”

      “Is catching a murderer considered chaotic?”

      “Very!  It was a situation fraught with unpredictability and escalating emotional turmoil, all in a stunningly short timeframe.  Though… given the seriousness of a murder and consequences if the murderer was not apprehended, I have decided to award that specific example an exemption and consider it a worthwhile experience.  I will not, however, participate in that activity again, unless the circumstances are equally dire and immediate.  I will, however, add a sturdy pair of gloves to my London packing as protection from the grime of crimefighting.”

_ Mr. Holmes is both logical and literal, however, he is not necessarily linear or concise in his arguments.  If needed, ask for clarification, but do not label his arguments silly or ridiculous, for they are not, and he will inform you of that most forcefully before showing you the door. _

      “I can’t say I blame you.  I’ve taken the opportunity to research your brother’s work as a consulting detective, not only because it was instrumental in that particular set of events, and it seems… he genuinely enjoys that sort of thing.  Grime, notwithstanding.”

      “Sherlock _thrives_ on it.  The intellectual and creative outlet I find in writing, he finds in the pursuit and application of scientific investigation.  He has found, in criminality, a productive manner through which to pursue his interests and offer benefit to society.  It has been something of a miracle for Sherlock who, like so many with astounding intellect and creativity, has experienced difficulty finding a path that is both fruitful and rewarding.”

_ The interview should focus on Mr. Holmes’s works, his writing process, his view of the literary world, historically and at present, and his home.  Questions about his future books, designed to reveal plot details, or questions about his personal life, including family and friends, are not to be considered. _   That was fairly unequivocal, however, he’d already botched that warning a bit and Mr. Holmes did seem content to chat…

      “It’s been a theory of mine, correct me if I’m wrong, that he was inspired to that path in life by Diogenes Bell.”

      “That… that is correct.  Most assume it is the other way around.  How did you come to that conclusion?”

      “The timeline, mostly.  He’d have to have started _young_ to be the inspiration for your character.  It’s not impossible, but I’ve… well, from my research, I’d say his early methods were very much along Bell’s model, though he’s developed his own methods and style through time.  That must be a grand thing for you, as the older brother, to see happen.  To have such a direct hand in your younger brother finding his way in life, I mean.”

Mycroft awarded his conversation partner a bevy of points for his analysis.  Admittedly, anyone taking the time to study the situation would come to the same conclusion, but it was telling that nobody actually chose to _take_ that time and he had read any number of speculation pieces by other journalists on this very issue.  That they made Sherlock giddy with glee was positively infuriating.  However, the final point… that was certainly _not_ infuriating.

      “Oh… yes, it is a highly gladdening thing.  Sherlock’s success is tremendously satisfying to witness.  Do you know if texts can be received while speaking on the phone?”

      “Ummmm… I’m actually not certain.  I tend to concentrate on one or the other in a given moment.”

      “That was not helpful.”

      “I… apologize?  I can google it if you like.”

      “No, that will not be necessary.”

Shit.  Mr. Holmes was using a tone.  A disapproving one!  Must shift gears from the unfathomable text issue!

      “Ok… let me know if you change your mind.  If we can step back a moment, though, to the night you were involved in the murder investigation… was your brother annoyed that you were involved in his case?  It seems a standard little-brother reaction.”

      “Annoyance is Sherlock’s standard _state of being_ , but it does escalate when our paths must cross, especially in what he considers his area of expertise.  Might I ask what prompted that question?”

      “In my job I meet a huge diversity of people and… I look both for what makes them unique and for what they have in common with the bulk of humanity.  As wild, unpredictable and surreal a person might be, there remain some fundamental things they share with others.  Younger siblings not being pleased when older siblings put fingers in what they see as their pies _is_ one of things.”

Gregory was right, despite his discourteous texting habits.  Henry Knight was, if a thing could exist, an appropriate individual to conduct the upcoming interview.  So far, he had demonstrated courtesy, unlike Mr. No Text, intelligence, perspicuity, and an intuitive talent that was uncommon among his peers, so far as he, himself, had experienced them.  And the man had not pried for a single upcoming-book detail yet!

      “Most interesting… and exceedingly correct.”

      “I suspect, though, you won’t pass that little tidbit on to your brother.”

Another spot-on insight, Mr. Knight.  Well done.

      “Good heavens, no.  Sherlock would writhe and foam at the mouth for being accused of sporting _any_ connection to the general public.”

      “So, we shouldn’t expect a brother-based crimefighting duo taking London by storm?”

      “Certainly not.  The physical exertion alone… it is a galling thought.  Though, in truth, I _have_ begun to wonder if additional experience with the practical aspects of Sherlock’s work might better inform my own writing.  The occasional observation of a simpler case to better understand how he coordinates with the police, physically investigates various clues, redirects his focus when a lead takes him in the wrong direction… all of that I can imagine academically, but it would be useful to know how my assumptions and mental constructs match with reality, not that such is necessarily a top-priority requirement for works of fiction.”

      “Latitude is certainly given for fictional works, but most writers I’ve met strive for believability and do grow their knowledge base through time to add in those details that make for a fuller, more believable experience for their readers.  Provided, that is, the reality isn’t so boring and dreary that their fingers fall asleep trying to type it all out.”

      “Texts can be typed via a single finger, though, true?”

      ‘Ummmm… sure.”

      “An excuse of broken digits, therefore, would be insufficient.  That is important…”

      “For what, might I ask.”

      “Upholding the standards of civility.”

      “Oh… ok.  Civility is certainly important.”

      “That it is.  On the point of reality in writing, however, another matter to consider is the potential for the research process to undermine the time required for the actual writing.  It is an insidious trap into which I have fallen on occasion.  The desire to learn, to pursue knowledge… it is a heady thing when a vast field of intriguing information welcomes you to come and wander among its proverbial wildflowers.”

      “I know that particular trap very, very well.  My legs are nothing but scar tissue from being caught in its jaws and having to rip myself out.  Those wildflowers are vicious.”

      “Verily, their pretty petals conceal their Venus Flytrap nature.  I doubt I will ever need to delve terribly deeply into any particular subject as, say, a historical-fiction writer or unless I harken to the call of the nonfiction genre again, however, a basic grounding in the essentials described in my books is certainly not amiss.  Even Gregory espouses a similar philosophy.”

      “Gregory?”

      “Gregory Lestrade.  He is to play Diogenes Bell in our upcoming joint film venture.”

      “Right, got it….

Just never heard anyone call him Gregory before, but it does suit you, Mr. Holmes.

      “…He’s a bit of an unexpected choice for that part, I have to say.”

      “Perhaps, but he is the correct one.”

That was an adamant statement.  Spoken with an adamant voice.  Ok…

      “Can you tell me why?”

      “Because… Gregory, to my admitted surprise, has depths that have not been plumbed in his previous film roles.  There is a seriousness about him, with respect to his work, a commitment to his performances that, I do not feel, come across to the viewing public.  Also, because he has a physical presence that meshes well with my character and has demonstrated to my satisfaction that he _understands_ Bell.  He sees the man much as I do, which is not a way often expressed by those who read or discuss my work.”

      “OK… _I_ actually thought it was a smart casting decision, to be truthful, but that’s because I’ve talked with Greg quite a bit for various interviews and know that the man he is, the professional he is, doesn’t shine though the image he presents on screen or the studio creates to shape his brand.  I’ve seen him, off-screen, show the intellect, cleverness and the world-weariness I read in Bell, as well as the simple abhorrence of injustice.  I think he’ll excel in the role and then, of course…”

      “Then what?”

      “Well, he, and the studio, will have to make some choices.  This is his chance to prove he can be a serious actor and, if he does, how does that affect his future career?  Does he do a mix of films, focus more on meatier parts in less lucrative films, or is the proof enough and he goes back to his standard films and the steady work that provides.”

The future… not something Mycroft had considered.  Gregory _would_ make more films, acting was his passion, but those films… films _he_ would not have a hand in overseeing, films that offered potential for danger given their reliance on physically-stressful situations, films where Gregory’s feral sexuality would, again, be on display for any and all eyes to behold… they had discussed the issue of time, how his being away for extended periods was not as concerning as it appeared, however… that seemed to be only a single in a list of issues to ponder…

      “I see.  Yes, that is quite the conundrum.  However, I believe the salient point is that he now _has_ choices, where that was not, previously, the case.”

      “You could be right.  About the new film though, is he hoping to do a bit of research on the life of a consulting detective?  Follow your brother about like you’re considering?”

      “Perhaps, yes.  He has mentioned such a thing, but there are no specific plans for it, at this point.  Can one send a text via some form of verbal cue?”

      ‘I… do you mean a voice-to-text feature?”

      “That sounds correct.”

      “Then, yes, you can.”

      “So, _all_ fingers could be broken, and one could still text using one’s nose to tap the requisite buttons and some form of phone cradle to hold the device while you accomplish the task.”

      “I… probably?”

      “Another item of evidence…”

      “Of what?”

      “I believe we addressed this already.”

      “Is it civility?”

      “Whatever else would it be?”

Did the captain of the _Titanic_ feel this off-footed when he was face to face with the iceberg?  Probably not.  The captain never met Mycroft Holmes.  Ok… when in doubt, plead ignorance.

      “I would never presume to make assumptions, sir.  It’s my job to present your thoughts and ideas, not create them myself out of whole cloth.”

      “Ah, I understand.  And I applaud your attitude.  It shall certainly make our time together more efficient.”

      “Efficiency is critical in my line of work.  People are busy and what I do interrupts their time, so I try to see that time is never wasted.”

      “Highly professional.  It is a shame, then, that Gregory has already departed, for you could, perhaps, schedule an interview with him concurrent with the time allocated for mine.  I know he is not averse to publicity and would likely welcome a thoughtful article concerning his upcoming role in my film.”

      “I might do that, in any case, when he’s back in the country.  I suspect that I wouldn’t have a difficult time selling it to a quality publication, but even if no publisher wants to bite, I could auction it off to the dear old ladies here in the village.  They adore him.”

      “That they do.  They are especially enamored of his bottom.”

That was a highly-observant observation, Mr. Holmes.  Not quite as reclusive as advertised, at least among the locals, it seems.

      “True!  Prim, church-going ladies covet his gluteal assets.  I forgot that you live in a quaint little village, too.  Greg’s been out for a visit, I take it.”

      “Several times.  This is a staggeringly important project for us both and we are committed to working together to ensure it meets our respective standards.”

      “That’s very interesting.  A collaborative effort like that isn’t typical.”

At least, not unless the parties involved have some personal connection…

      “Nor is my film.”

      “Touché.  Is it a model you intended to utilize for any actor who would play Bell or did you decide on it after Greg was cast?”

      “After I met Gregory.  I… it is an easy thing, talking with him.  I doubt such a collaboration would be possible with another person.”

Henry jotted a quick note that was really a doodle of a stick figure with a circle around it.  He actually understood a bit about Mycroft Holmes.  The desire to be away from the maddening crowd, the inability to easily connect on a personal level with people, though he likely had more skill with that than the writer… when you _did_ meet someone who saw who you were and accepted that fact…

Using his eraser, a tiny space was created in the circle so that a second stick figure could reach a hand through.

      “Then his casting was a doubly-blessed blessing.  I know my own hope is that the film genuinely captures the essence of the novel and that won’t be easy, given the complexity of the characters and their interactions.  It seems you’re doing your utmost to see that happen.”

      “I am.  And shall continue to do so.”

      “That’s good to know.  With Greg and you putting your heads together, I have faith the details won’t be overlooked.”

      “Certainly not!  Already, I have been most helpful in the area of socks, braces… many a critical item that serves, en masse, to create the physical presence of Diogenes Bell.  From there… well, who know, but we surely shall find out.”

Henry actually had a fairly good grasp of how the film industry worked and smiled at Mycroft’s extremely proud declaration.  The man clearly was being ‘managed’ by person or persons involved with the film, but there wasn’t anything especially wrong with that.  If it kept the writer happy, made him feel a part of things, what harm was there in a little special handling?  Given the rumored ability of Mycroft Holmes to send the project into the dustbin on a whim, it was likely very good business.

The more intriguing question was how much of the managing was being done by Greg Lestrade himself?  Greg was an honestly decent chap, but did he see this ‘personal connection’ with Holmes the same way as the writer or was it a natural extension of a purely-business relationship?  He knew, from painful experience, how you could think you connected with someone you were working with and realize that they saw you in a friendly, but solely-business way, and had no intention of pursuing a friendship once your business together was completed.  Yes, it was a shame Greg wasn’t easily available for a chat right now, but he wasn’t going to be away for _that_ long…

      “I’m sure they’re glad for your input.  Will that stretch, do you suspect, for characters beyond Bell?”

      “Oh, most assuredly.  I have already spoken with Miss Hawkins about her character and I am confident she is aware of my expectations and that I will verify they are being met fully.”

Janine Hawkins was _not_ an easy interview because it took a lot of effort and dexterity to dig below the surface to reach the person she truly was, which was someone he genuinely admired.  Either she wanted the role so desperately that she allowed Mycroft Holmes to lecture her or the man had some innate ability to connect with members of the acting profession.  Probably the former, but it brought the question of Greg’s relationship with the writer back into focus.

But, that was a matter for another time.  For _this_ time, however, it also cemented that his article had best be a stellar piece of work, and fully in line with all of the author’s stipulations or the sky would be raining hellfire and he didn’t have an adamantium umbrella at the ready.

      “Janine is very talented; I have no doubt she’ll be great in the role.”

      “I suspect she lacks ten broken fingers and a tendency towards incivility, also.”

      “I would imagine so...”

      “Yes, I feel most certain it is the case.  Now…”

The knock on Mycroft’s study door was precisely the right rhythm and pattern to alert him that his driver wanted a word.

      “… do pardon me a moment, Mr. Knight.”

Pressing the phone tightly to his chest, Mycroft cleared this throat in a slightly guilty manner and bid Charles enter in an also-guilty overly-formal declaration.

      “Please do enter, Charles, and deliver your message.”

      “Am I disturbing you, Mr. Holmes?”

Given you are clutching your phone to your chest like a love letter you are desperate to hide from your mother.

      “Perish the thought!  What might I do for you this fine evening?”

      “Do you need more tea?”

      “Was that your message?”

      “No, I thought it a prudent question given… you.”

      “Oh… well, yes, in truth, tea would be lovely.”

      “I will alert Mrs. Hudson.  And, I wanted to know if you will need my services tomorrow evening.”

      “I cannot think of a reason.”

      “Then I shall accept the challenge.”

      “Challenge?”

      “Stu Porter challenged me to a darts competition at the pub.”

      “Which you always win.”

      “Naturally, but that doesn’t stop him from trying and I like to encourage initiative.  It helps grow skill to watch a superior player at work.”

      “True.  Then go with my blessing and place… a three-pound wager on yourself for me.”

      “Good heavens, sir.  Such a sum.”

      “It _is_ extravagant, I know, but it is proper to support members of my staff in their various personal endeavors.”

      “Very good sir, and thank you.”

Charles stepped back out of the study and Mycroft silently cursed, both for putting his conversation on hold, which was not entirely polite, and because Charles certainly would know about this texting business and have a thesis prepared on why Gregory was absolutely beastly.

      “I apologize, Mr. Knight, a matter of household business.”

      “Oh, I understand completely.  I’ve probably kept you too long, in any case.”

Mycroft cut his eyes towards the clock and was surprised to see how much time had elapsed.  His brain then quivered with a fresh surge of surprise at how… pleasantly that time had been spent.  He despised the phone, though, now that he thought about it, he could have used his study phone and not his mobile to place his call, so he could keep his mobile on his desk and utterly free from use, so Gregory’s negligence could easily be verified.  Well… lesson learned.  As well as the lesson that Mr. Knight would likely do a credible job of this interview.  At the very least, the time would not be as dreary and painful as anticipated…

      “Not at all, however, I suppose we both have matters to which to attend.  You are coordinating with my agent for a day to arrive?”

      “Yes, sir.  We need to find a day both Wiggins and I are free and see if that works with your and her schedule.  But, it should be fairly soon.  I actually talked to Wiggins yesterday about this and he’s looking forward to it.  He’s felt a bit flat, inspiration wise, and this has lit a few creative fires.”

      “Oh, that is good to hear.  Gregory suspects he will greatly enjoy my house and grounds.”

      “I think he will, too, and so will I.  And, it’s been very nice taking to you tonight, Mr. Holmes.  This has been a brilliant start on our conversation and I have no doubt, when we have the chance to talk further, it will all lead to a piece you’ll be very happy with.”

Mycroft startled a moment then realized that the interview _had_ , for all intents and purposes, been given a start.  And he had scarcely been aware of it!  This was certainly cause for celebration.  When Mrs. Hudson arrived with tea he would immediately send her back to secure another portion of biscuits, as well.  And it would be the decadent shortbread that he kept for particularly auspicious occasions…

      “It has been a most agreeable experience, I do confess.  I, then, shall bid you goodnight and await Anthea’s word on scheduling.”

      “Goodnight yourself, sir.  Thank you for your time.”

Henry ended the call before the ‘yes!’ he was poised to shriek made its way out of his mouth.  He’d made calls to the punishingly few people who had interviewed Mycroft Holmes and they all described it as the most terrifying and dreadful experience of their careers.  He’d been considering investing in a suit of armor for the experience, but… that went well.  That went very well.  The sort of very well that had his intuition tingling about the upcoming interview and the piece it would produce.  He put his best into all his work, but some just, from the onset, gave him a feeling that they were going to be special.  That unique piece that stands out from the rest.  This was certainly worth a proper cup of tea and the good biscuits Mrs. Sutton at the bakery made only once a week and today had been that day.  The fact he’d already eaten half of his supply would not diminish his enjoyment of the remaining celebratory morsels…

__________

Look at him smiling… that was odd.

      “Here you are, Mr. Holmes.  You must be in a mood to want another cup so quickly.”

      “A superb mood, Mrs. Hudson, and I shall want shortbread, too.”

      “Did you win the lottery?”

      “You are well aware that I never participate in that foolish scheme.”

      “Just a bit of a joke, sir.  I’ll bring shortbread, too, but if you want to share _why_ you’re in such a good mood…”

      “Because Gregory’s utter violation of the social contract and complete lack of principles, civility or decorum led to a rather astonishing series of events.”

      “I have no idea what you’re saying, but I suspect it’s rubbish.”

      “Au contraire… I have just participated in… a phone interview.”

      “What?”

      “You heard me… I phoned Mr. Knight, who is to do a more formal interview when he arrives at the to-be-determined date, and we made substantial progress on… any number of topics.”

      “No, you didn’t.”

      “Your disbelief emphasizes the magnitude of the accomplishment.”

He wasn’t lying.  Did the End of Days happen and she didn’t notice?

      “Good heavens… I may need to sit down.”

      “You may do that after you retrieve my shortbread.  In fact, bring tea and shortbread for yourself, also.  We must begin discussing this interview and how best to prepare for it.  Photographs shall be involved, so you understand the gravity of the situation.”

      “I’ll bring shortbread and scotch, thank you very much.  I feel the need for both.”

      “An excellent suggestion.  Oh, and do set aside three pounds from the household fund to give to Charles for his darts competition tomorrow.”

      “He said the wager was for you.  Personally.”

      “It is from the collective ‘you.’ “

      “Is that like the royal ‘we?’ “

      “A first cousin, at least.”

      “Royals do love their first cousins.  Marry them right and left.  And they’re terrible about paying their debts.  You toddle off to buy a crown and we’re going to have words, Mr. Holmes.”

      “Might we have shortbread while we have our words.”

      “Only if you don’t claim royal privilege and steal my share.”

      “I will do my best to refrain.”

      “See that you do or it’s the chop for you.”

      “A guillotine… I have always wondered about the function of such a thing.  If it is as dramatic in execution as it appears in films.”

      “Want me to see about hiring one for a day?”

      “Yes, that might be necessary.  I have been somewhat undecided about a theme for the next Diogenes Bell novel and you have to admit that a murder by guillotine offers a mote of interest.”

      “More than a mote, I’d say.  And wouldn’t Mr. Lestrade look handsome, posed next to one, all serious-faced and thoughtful.”

      “He certainly would.  Though, I will not agree to it until he apologizes for his slight.”

      “What slight?”

      “Here…”

Mycroft slid over the mobile for Mrs. Hudson to view.

      “Alright, you texted your mum.  How does that have anything to do with Mr. Lestrade?”

Snatching back the mobile, Mycroft looked again and… oh, yes.  Mummy’s codename is Badger, not Gregory’s.  He is Wolverine.  Remember, brain, how he insisted on that for some strange reason involving some film or another.  And remember, also, that you were preparing to phone Mummy when your river of thought flowed down a tangential tributary.  One black mark is now being applied to your record.  With a special notation added for further recrimination.

      “Nothing, I… was jesting.”

      “Want me to bring scotch for you, too?”

      “Yes, please.  Lots.”


	49. Chapter 49

      “I….”

      “I know.”

      “It’s…”

      “Yes, it is.”

      “You…”

      “Quite.”

Mycroft sat beaming brightly at Greg’s utter disbelief at the news of his phone conversation with Henry Knight, though the _reason_ that inspired the call was modified slightly… to maintain contented romantic relations and allow his Gregory to continue bathing in his state of love-bathed bliss.  Never let it be said that Mycroft Holmes was anything but dedicated to the happiness of his partner.

      “I’m… I’m honestly astounded, Mycroft.  Two things you hate doing, phoning people and being interviewed, and you accomplished both at once!  If I was there, I’d be giving you a massive kiss… that’s a thing to mark in your journal!”

Already done, and in copious detail.

      “Thank you, Gregory.  I _am_ most proud of my audacity.”

      “As well you should be.  To my shame, I did nothing to come close to that.  The best I can boast is that the director took a few of my suggestions to make a scene to play out the way he wanted it, so we got usable film in the can for our hard work and not just a belly full of frustration.  I’m very glad you hit it off with Henry, though.  I thought you might, but it’s encouraging to hear you had a good conversation.”

      “It was a _highly_ surprising thing, in retrospect, but, in the moment, I scarcely realized how successful was the conversation or how productive the outcome.”

      “I’d say it was part of Henry’s job to make you feel comfortable, but that’s not the whole story.  He’s a genuinely decent chap and has an honesty about him that helps people open up.  It’s why he’s one of the best in the business.  Not as fast or flippant as some media outlets would like, but it gives him a level of prestige and access to the most reputable magazines and journals.  Feeling better about the real interview?”

      “A touch, yet I have not interacted with the photographer, so that hurdle remains a high one.”

      “I won’t lie and say Wiggins might not get under your skin, but view him like Sherlock and you’ll manage easily enough.  Ignore his nonsense, put your foot down when you need to and bribe him to shut up and go away if that seems easiest.”

      “Oh, thank you.  Concrete suggestions are always helpful.”

      “Glad to be useful.  I should tell you, though, that I’ve got night scenes to shoot for the next week or so, meaning I won’t be able to chat as readily as I have been.  If there’s an emergency, though, phone Anderson and he’ll get me on the phone whether the director likes it or not.”

      “Oh… I see.”

And what you’re seeing isn’t making you happy is it, love.  Well, I suppose it’s best to start things the way they’re likely to go on.  No use trying to hide what it means to be involved with a film star, even one as plain and ridiculous as me.

      “Only for a bit, though, then I’m back to days.  If we’re working on a soundstage or filming an interior shot, it doesn’t matter when we film, but these are open-air, running about scenes and we need to actually film them at night.  We can still get in an early-morning chat now and again, though, so it won’t be total radio silence.  But, on to more important things.  Tell me, Mycroft Holmes, writer extraordinaire, how does it feel to be home again?”

Greg was certain he could hear Mycroft’s pure, uncorrupted joy flowing through the phone and straight into his ear.

      “Like I have dragged my battered soul from purgatory and through the gates of paradise.”

      “That bad, huh?”

      “No, that means it is good that I am home.”

Your cuteness can’t be measured, love.  It’s vast and ever-expanding, just like the universe.

      “Right, my mistake.  Everything as you left it?”

      “Precisely as I left it and I am most eager to return to the norms of my daily routine.  Though, I should clarify that the guillotine _is_ a deviation from the norm, but Charles cannot procure one until two days hence, so it is not too proximal a perturbation my just-returned calm.”

For anyone else, that might be cause for concern, but Mycroft was precisely the sort of person who could discuss acquiring executioners’ equipment and not have it appear strange or unusual.

      “That… that sounds like a perfectly acceptable no-perturbation interval, even for a guillotine.”

      “It is, yes, though the results of that particular bit of research will not feature in my writing until, I anticipate, two other books have been scripted.  I could, however, be wrong, as I have shown, of late, a wildly unpredictable streak that could easily upend my intended timetable.”

      “You _have_ become something of a devil-may-care chap, I do admit.”

      “I am not certain if it is a temporary or permanent condition.”

      “Keeping detailed notes so you can puzzle it out?”

Mycroft’s tiny gasp of surprise was as adorable over the phone as it was in person.  Meaning, it was toe-curlingly adorable and the mental image would carry Greg through any number of long days and nights away from the man he loved.

      “I had not thought of that.  Yes, this _would_ benefit from careful analysis.  I shall prepare a chart.”

      “That’s probably wise.”

      “I agree.  If I am, heretofore, to be considered spontaneous, I should have a solid footing on the degree to which it may manifest and a detailed, thoughtful plan to capitalize on this change of circumstance.”

      “It’s always good to be well-prepared for spontaneity.”

      “Most certainly.  However… I did have a question to pose to you.”

      “Is it a hard question?”

      “I… I honestly cannot assess the degree of difficulty from your vantagepoint.”

      “Fair.  Go ahead.”

      “Given the impending interview will feature photographs…”

      “Yes?”

      “How should I appear?”

      “Out of thin air?”

      “That makes no sense.”

Most of my jokes don’t, but I love you anyway.

      “It was a joke.  Are you asking what you should wear, that sort of thing?”

      “Yes, that is in line with my intent.”

      “Ok then… first, be comfortable.  An interview can take a long time and you don’t want to be kitted up in something that’s not comfortable to wear.  I know you want to present the real image of who you are, too, and that’s a man of taste and refinement, so some of your casual things that are simply gorgeous, but look smart and elegant.  Nice pair of trousers and a shirt with a jumper over it, for instance.  Simple, classy as well as classic, but you wear that sort of thing a lot, so you’ll be comfortable as well as sharp-looking.”

      “Ah, I see.  So, a suit would be inappropriate.”

      “Not necessarily.  Do you want to present as a bloke who wears his suit about the house?  It’s a look a good number of people might expect for a famous mystery writer, so it wouldn’t be amiss.”

      “But not as comfortable, perhaps, as your suggested ensemble.”

      “That’s for you to decide.  You _do_ enjoy wearing your suits and I haven’t noticed you being particularly uncomfortable while wearing one.”

      “True… I do not wish, however, to be perceived as stuffy or pompous.”

      “Then I’d avoid the suit, unless you want to have your tailor make one of those more modern versions that you see men wearing sometimes.  Some are fairly snappy, but certainly qualify as a real suit.”

      “They are positively horrendous.  I would rather conduct the interview in the nude, save for a wimple.”

And Wiggins would be more than happy to photograph every second of that.  It’d probably form the basis for his next book.  Mental note:  phone the bastard and put nude photographs, with or without accompanying wimple, completely out of bounds unless he wants to find his head separated from his neck.  And not in a good way, either.

      “Scratching the snappy suits right off the list!  Trousers and a nice jumper it is, then.  You’ve got that lovely blue cashmere one that makes your eyes glow like sapphires.  Wear that one.”

      “It _is_ a favorite of mine.”

      “I think it would be a fantastic choice.  When you walk about to show them the grounds, it’ll keep you warm, too.”

      “A notable ancillary benefit.  I am now convinced.”

      “Great!  You’ll be handsome, comfortable and warm which is far better than I’ve been for any number of interviews.”

      “That does sound cozy, now that you enunciate all applicable variables.  However…”

      “Yes?”

      “There is one element that has been playing at the corners of my mind that… I feel it is time for it to be broached.”

      “And that is?”

      “Photographs.”

      “Isn’t that what we’ve been broaching already?”

      “Our remarks to this point have involved how I shall appear _for_ the photographs.  We have, in no manner, considered or analyzed the subsequent consequences.”

      “I don’t think people are going to send you hate mail for wearing a jumper, Mycroft.”

      “No, I doubt that shall be the case, however… what if I am recognized?”

      “Because you’re wearing a jumper?”

      “Why have you become fixated on jumpers?”

      “Because… I feel I should be fixated on _something_ and was the safest option that presented itself.”

      “That does not make sense.”

      “Then let’s let it die a quiet death and move on to this new topic, sans jumpers.  I’m confused about the consequence bit.  Can you go over it again?”

      “Very well.  Photographs shall be taken for the interview.  They shall be published.  People shall purchase the publication in which said photographs are published.  Therein lies the problem.”

      “What problem?”

      “The recognition problem.”

      “I’m still in the weeds.”

      “Then step into an area of better-groomed lawn.”

      “Not literal weeds, the plant sort, that is, but the brain-type weeds.”

      “Gregory… have you been consuming… illicit substances?”

Not yet, but I’m strongly considering it.

      “It means I’m confused or not clearly seeing the point.”

      “Ah, an idiom.”

      “If you say so.  Little help to de-weed me?”

      “I would have thought my meaning to be somewhat obvious.”

      “The height of my brain weeds says it isn’t.”

      “Recognition, Gregory!  People will recognize me!”

      “What people?”

      “Any and all people.  I am most content with my degree of anonymity when I mill about in public, but this could irrevocably compromise that anonymity.  I… it is a worrying thing.”

Must not joke about the utter absurdity of it all.  Must take this seriously and remember that it’s not the issue that’s important, it’s Mycroft’s _views_ about the issue that are important.

      “Ok… let’s look at this logically.  How often are you recognized now?”

      “Rarely, if ever.”

Except in the village, but you’re probably forgetting that or honestly think they have only the vaguest of notions about you as ‘that fellow who pops in now and again.’

      “Is your photo on the jacket of your books?”

      “That… yes, on some editions there is a photograph provided, however, it is a rather old one.  My hair is completely different now than then.”

I’ve seen that photo, love, and the millimeter of extra length doesn’t actually qualify as completely different, but moving on.

      “Ok, however, your face isn’t different and loads of people have seen it.  Though I suspect the interview is going to be one a lot of people will want to read, it won’t be equal to the number of people who’ve read your books through the years, so I can’t see this adding to your recognition factor.”

      “One monochrome photograph of me taken by Anthea cannot equate to a selection of quality, polychrome, professionally-taken photographs.  I shall be presented in full-color to the world and surely that will bolster, in a negative manner, my ability to be recognized.”

      “Alright, it’s true that a simple photo on a book jacket may or may not draw the eye for very long, but I can’t say photos in a literary magazine are likely to do that, either.”

      “I shall be most handsome in my photographs, so I am _very_ certain eyes shall be drawn.  They shall likely linger.  And study.  Perhaps this… perhaps I have been too hasty in agreeing to this.”

It cut Greg to the quick to hear the hesitant fear in Mycroft’s voice.  He’d been so proud of himself, so enthused and now he was traveling in the other direction at breakneck speed.  His poor love… Mycroft’s brain wasn’t his best friend sometimes, but that could be said of anyone, he supposed.  Regardless, it was the job of the man who loved him to try and step on the brakes, bring the ride to a safe and gentle stop then, if possible, send it back on the happier track as a finale.

      “No… no, I wouldn’t say that.  First, you don’t get about much beyond your little village, so people don’t have a great deal of opportunity to capitalize on the recognition factor.  Second, I doubt you’ll be doing another interview like this in the near future so, handsome as you are, your image have time to fade a bit from people’s memory, so they don’t quite remember all the details to fit to an actual face if they saw you out, say, buying a coffee.”

      “Why would I be purchasing coffee?  I am not overly fond of the stuff.”

      “Tea, then.  Unless you’re wearing a shirt with your name on it, I doubt people would realize it’s you from an article they read months ago anymore than they do from seeing your photo on your books.”

      “I… I am not convinced.  You, for example, are recognized nearly by the amoebas!”

      “True, but that’s because my ugly face is in _other_ people’s faces continually.  Always a new film, photospread, interview on TV or in a magazine, official or paparazzi snaps from this or that event, newspaper column… it’s hard not to see me on a fairly regular basis.  That being said, when we film somewhere a little remote, where people don’t see much or don’t care much about news and entertainment from other places, then I’m _not_ recognized.  When I meet someone, and the topic of my work comes up, there _may_ be some recognition because they have seen a film or two of mine, but it wasn’t enough to imprint my face into their brain.  Most often, they just give me a ‘that’s nice’ smile and get on with whatever it is they’re there to do.”

      “Truly?”

      “Absolutely.  And I’ve talked to loads of people who do most of their work here and are very well known, as long as they stay in Great Britain.  Pop over to the US and nobody knows who they are.  Vice versa’s true, also.  I can’t imagine that you’ll see anything different in your life because you had a few photos and a nice interview in a magazine.  It just doesn’t work that way.”

      “I suppose…”

      “If you’re truly worried, change something.  You noted your hair was different in the photos for your book jacket, so maybe comb it differently or give it a bit of a trim.  Something to throw off the eye when people look at you, so they don’t make a direct connection.”

      “That… is not an implausible suggestion.”

      “Hurray for me!”

      “Yes, I shall join in with the hurrah, as I certainly could affect some form of disguise to safeguard my identity.”

That didn’t sound good.

      “Please don’t wear a wig and rubber nose.”

      “I do not own a rubber nose.”

      “I notice you didn’t say you didn’t own a wig.”

      “I… may own several.”

      “How disgusey are they?”

      “Marvelously.”

      “Don’t wear your marvelously disguisey wig.”

      “Which of them?”

      “Any of them.”

      “Drat.”

Was it time for a distraction?  They were venturing into dangerous territory because there was little doubt Mycroft might throw caution to the wind and don a ginger wig, fake teeth and adhere a selection of boils and sores to his face if the disguise idea took root too deep in that brain of his…

      “Want to play a game?”

      “Pardon?”

      “Do you want to play a game?”

      “Gregory, are you also holding a conversation with another person?”

      “Nope, this question is posed directly to you.”

      “I… what sort of game?”

      “A very simple one, but one that challenges how well you can put clues together.”

      “I am most skilled in that area.”

      “Then you might win!  Ready for the first challenge?”

      “I suppose I am, though I am not at all clear on the rules or parameters of the game.”

      “You will be in a moment.  Ok… listen closely…”

Greg reached over to the nightstand by his bed and held the phone close to the drawer as he pulled it open and took out the small pad of paper and pen it contained.  Then he held the phone by the paper as he used the pen to write a few sentences of dialogue from today’s filming before returning the paper to the nightstand and laying the pen on the stand’s top.

      “What did I do?  Be as specific as you can.”

      “Oh, I see!  An excellent game, Gregory… very well… you opened the drawer of some form of furniture.  It was, I suspect, the nightstand by your bed for I heard a small creak reminiscent of a mattress spring just prior to the opening, as well as the rustle of what I suspect were bed coverings and/or linens.  You reached into the drawer and extracted one item I did not immediately identify but, given the second item was certainly a pad of paper, due to the characteristic sound of a cheap pressboard backing sliding across a section of wood, I surmised the first item was a writing utensil.  That was born out by the subsequent sound of writing on the paper, which also added confirmation that the writing implement was a pen since a pencil makes a sound that only a dunderhead would fail to recognize.  You wrote a number of lines of text…”

      “How’d you know that?  About the multiple lines.”

      “You paused several times, which could signify thinking, however, when you again began writing, it was from a different location on the paper and the same location each time.”

      “You could hear that?”

      “There was a slight fluctuation in the sound intensity.  I suspect you were holding the phone with your left hand, so it was positioned towards the left side of the paper.  After each pause, the sound was louder than before the pause, indicating you ended on the right side of the paper and began once more on the left, which is the standard pattern for writing a line.  The number of lines could indicate you were writing short phrases on a larger page, which was not highly likely, or standard sentences on a smaller piece of paper, which aligns more with typical writing behavior and the size of notepads one might find in a public location such as a hotel, therefore I conclude you did the latter.  You then replaced the pad within the drawer but lay the pen on the dresser top.”

      “Amazing!  You got everything right and with far more specifics than I anticipated.  That was truly, truly brilliant.”

      “Thank you.  I agree that my performance was exceptional.”

And your attention is far away from disguises, so everyone is a winner in this content.

      “Diogenes Bell himself couldn’t have done better.  And here I was thinking I’d given you a tough challenge.”

      “You were mistaken.”

      “Apparently.”

      “Let me give you another one, then, to see if your skills hold.”

      “By all means, though I will place you on notice that I intend to vanquish this challenge as handily as the last.”

      “I expect nothing less.  Ok, pay attention… what am I doing.”

Which is something I hope will lead to some happy naughtiness that I suspect both of us would appreciate.

      “I… it is difficult to know given, this time, there is a lack of ancillary auditory clues, though the main sound is a familiar one.”

      “I bet you can guess.”

      “I hate to guess.”

      “Try.”

      “Might I ask… are you wearing a jacket?”

      “Nope.”

      “To which are you responding in the negative?”

      “Oh, to the jacket part.”

      “Very well.  Hmmmm…. is there some form of bag or luggage at hand?”

      “No… this really isn’t hard, love.  At least, not yet.”

      “I do not understand.”

      “I tried to give you a clue.”

      “You did?”

      “Yeah.”

      “It was a most cryptic one.”

      “Honestly, it wasn’t meant to be.”

But I forgot who I was talking to and am seriously reconsidering my life choices from the last two minutes.

      “That further confounds the scenario.”

      “Here’s a less cryptic hint.  You seem to have an idea about the sound, so apply it to clothing other than a jacket.”

      “Is it a hat?”

      “Who has a zipper on their hat?”

      “I was adopting a top-down inquiry approach.”

Maybe phone sex was the worst idea in the universe.  There didn’t seem to be any other ideas out there failing as badly, even those that involved large groups of drunks with access to petrol and matches.

      “Jump to the obvious.  The really obvious obvious.”

      “If it were obvious, I would not be flailing my mental arms, desperate for even a gossamer thread of illumination to guide my path.”

      “That was very poetic.”

      “Thank you.  I have been pondering a new series of books with a more florid tone to the writing and that may have influenced my thinking.”

      “New series?”

Slightly-sexually frustrated man’s Interest piqued both for basic interest sake and for the opportunity to take the emergency detour off this current road to hell.

      “Yes, though it is naught but a glimmer in my mind, at present.  My Adele Flatley series has, I believe, run its course and may end with the novel I have planned to begin in several months.  My inspiration for that arena of creativity has waned somewhat and I have a taste for something new.  A fresh endeavor.”

      “Fresh endeavors are certainly important.  And they really do seem to inspire other areas of your life and work.  Florid, too, you say.  You do love words, so that should be great fun to work on.”

      “I _am_ most eager for the opportunity to experiment with a more colorful and elaborate writing style.”

      “Nobody could do it better!  Another series or something that stands on its own?”

      “Difficult to say… I shall have to see what urge strikes when I take up the proverbial pen.”

      “Is this more of your newly-found spontaneity?”

      “I had not thought of that but, yes…  Yes, it certainly could be another manifestation.  Dear me… I am positively infected with spontaneity!”

      “I’ve never heard someone so happy to be infected in all my days.”

      “I am, as it is said, off the chain.”

Greg began giggling and loved hearing the duet his laughter made with Mycroft’s.

      “You are!  Running wild, conquering the world.”

      “Shall I receive a reward for my savagery and subsequent victories?”

      “As many as you’d like of whatever you’d like.  Sky’s the limit.”

      “Something… salacious?”

      “I was trying to!”

      “When?”

      “Remember the zipper sound?”

      “I do not… oh.  Oh… that was the zipper for your trousers.”

Which are still unzipped, so I’m feeling a bit of a perv now, thank you.

      “Yes.  Told you it wasn’t really too difficult to fathom out.”

      “That possibility completely eluded me.  I am a rather silly bunny, at times.”

The image of a silly bunny was wholly appropriate for that adorable man, but didn’t do much to escalate the erotic atmosphere for a scorching, filthy round of phone sex.

      “How about this… sometime during our next two phone calls, I’ll give you another sexy nudge and if you catch it, I’ll give you the most salacious, scandalous phone call of your life.”

      “Salacity and a challenge?  Gregory… you are far, far too good to me.”

      “Only giving you what you deserve.  Now, I probably should get some sleep soon, but I want to hear more about your writing.”

      “What about it?”

      “Anything.  What you’re working on now, what you plan to work on, what you’d like to try… I like hearing you talk about your writing.”

Because I can hear every bit of your passion and devotion in your voice and that’s absolutely as wonderful as a sexy phone chat.  Love is strange, but a good strange, all things considered…

      “Oh, I would be honored.  And I would be most interested in hearing your thoughts on some suggestions my publisher has for cover artwork for a likely reissue of the Diogenes Bell series in softcover.  I, of course, have final approval, however, I do concede that you have more plebeian tastes and a stronger understanding of what might appeal to the masses.  As long as my aesthetic standards are upheld, I see no reason not to do my part to promote and assist with the marketing of our film.”

Plebeian… there were far worse things in the world to be and Mycroft would certainly have invoked them if necessary.

      “I’m all ears!  They don’t come much commoner than me, so I’m certainly a good bellwether for what the wage slaves would appreciate.”

      “That is true.  Very well, let us begin with that…”

Greg quickly zipped up his trousers, then wriggled to get himself as cozily-comfortable as he could on the bed.  His day really _was_ fairly uneventful, many of them were, actually, so a chance to discuss something interesting and important to his partner was a joy.  Besides, they wouldn’t get much of a chance to chat for awhile and this was a marvelous opportunity to let Mycroft shine and soak up as much attention as he could.  He’d do a little something special, though, to give Mycroft some reminders he was still loved and adored even when they weren’t able to spend time together on the phone or computer.  Keep up with the texts, send the quick snap of something loony he was involved in, maybe have something delivered to the house to give his partner a surprise.  He’d have Anderson research the availability of guillotine polish.  Might was well have Mycroft’s poor victim beheaded with a little flash and gleam and Mycroft was nothing if not admiring of a well-polished piece of craftsmanship, no matter how much ichor it might sport after it’d been properly used…

__________

      “Are you prepared?”

      “Are you _alright_?  Do we need to postpone this interview, again, because you’ve gone loony?”

      “No, I simply want to know if you are prepared for my… entrance.”

Anthea had been barred from the house until today, the day of the interview, which had been pushed back a week at Mycroft’s specific and unexplained request, and all she could get from the staff about the situation was that they were under threat of painful death if they disclosed anything about _why_ she was being banned.  Apparently, her client had a ‘surprise,’ which had been the reason for her low-grade, continuous headache for the past week.  Mycroft’s surprises rarely bode well for anyone but Mycroft Holmes…

      “I am prepared.  That is, I am standing here staring at the doorframe you’re hiding behind.  If that constitutes prepared, then I am excelling.”

      “Wonderful.  Here I come…”

She was wrong.  She wasn’t prepared.  The world wasn’t prepared for this.  It couldn’t be.  Greg was going to die.

      “Well… what do you think?”

Mycroft was a prim, squirrely man.  This was not that man.  This was a man in a rich, charcoal turtleneck, a flattering jacket in nearly the same hue, but with what seemed a wisp of blue to enhance his eyes, and exquisitely-cut trousers that drew the ensemble into a single, perfect package.  A package with a neatly-trimmed beard.  And a touch of wave in his hair.  With hints of curl.  Shit.  This was Defcon 1.  This was Defcon Off the Fucking Scale.  Mycroft Holmes was… sexy.

      “What… why…”

      “It is my disguise!  Gregory suggested my blue jumper, but I realized that I _do_ appear in a jumper and trousers with some frequency, but this is an entirely new look that will certainly not promote greater recognition of my standard appearance among the populace.  My staff has been most helpful in creating my alter ego.”

Her befuddled, clueless client looked like someone who hosted programs where he sat in a sumptuous armchair, a fire burning in the hearth, and introduced the night’s film or series episode in a confidently-sensual voice, giving you the chance to hear the lovelorn-viewers’ sighs of deepest longing rustling the leaves of every tree in England.

      “It… ok.  Yeah, ok.  Whatever ego this is, alter or otherwise… yep.  Yep, that’s what’s it is.”

This was not the reaction from his PA Mycroft had been expecting, but he was finding it astoundingly satisfying, nonetheless.  Anthea was nigh on speechless!  In all likelihood, she had not recognized him until he made his identity clear.  This was a rousing success!

      “Excellent.  I feel, now, that this interview shall not forever make me a known target of attention when I venture out beyond these walls.”

What was he even talking about?  Fuck it, who cares.

      “It’s… it’s a very not-target look for you.  It’ll photograph well for the interview, too.  You look very… smart and serious.”

      “Better and better!  And, hark!  I believe my guests have arrived.  I thought greeting them in my study would be appropriate.”

      “Fine.  Sure.  Ok.  Wanna go there?”

      “We _are_ in my study.”

      “Oh, right.  Well then, yeah for us!”

Dumbstruck!  Anthea was positively dumbstruck!  This was surely the most successful disguise in the history of subterfuge!

      “I decided tea and some small refreshments would also be appropriate upon their arrival.  Mrs. Hudson shall bring them after she has delivered our visitors.”

      “I’ll have a martini.”

      “Oh dear, should I have had a drinks tray prepared instead?”

      “No, you’re working.  Drink tea.  I’m… I’ll just pour vodka in a teacup.  It’s fine.  Go on about your business.”

Mycroft had no time to reflect on Anthea’s beverage of choice as Mrs. Hudson’s small knock drew his attention and he quickly straightened his jacket and put what he hoped was a welcoming smile on his lips.

      “Mr. Holmes?  Your guests are here.”

      “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.  Gentlemen, it is good to meet you.  Welcome to my home.”

Mycroft’s gaze ran over the two men and he quickly decided which was the rather colorful photographer and which was the more studious journalist.

      “I want to fuck this house.”

Colorful and baffling photographer…

      “Oh… do you?”

      “Yeah.  I do.  Henry here looks like he wants to fuck something else, though.”

Knight’s ‘for the last time, Wiggins, I am _not_ gay’ was undercut somewhat by the slightly wide-eyed look he had been giving Mycroft, a look Anthea thoroughly understood and deemed vodka-worthy once the interview was done.  They could share a nice tipple and head-shaking session while the photographer ravished the house and Mycroft critiqued his technique… it was going to be a _long_ day…


	50. Chapter 50

Mycroft had many expectations for how this interview would proceed, but they were not precisely coming to pass.  First the photographer was stochastic.  He had anticipated the man would be somewhat baffling, however it was seemingly not possible to predict what he would do or say from one moment to the next.  Admittedly, it could stem from Wiggins’s immense fascination with the structure and appointment of the house, which had him, at times, transfixed with a certain view or by a particular object, but it also seemed part and parcel of his fundamental personality.  This had Mycroft unknowing of the meaning of various utterances and unable to answer most questions without a degree of probing for might lie beneath their cryptic coverings.

In Henry Knight’s case, there was a much larger degree of predictability, though this being, now, the _formal_ interview, the structure was slightly different from their previous phone conversation.  Not more uncomfortable, per se, but there was something Mycroft found a touch unsettling seeing his words recorded, sometimes on paper, sometimes on the small tablet Knight had with him and it gave him pause.  Which was odd, given he was one who made his life committing his thoughts to paper.  Having it done by another person when those words had not traipsed through the myriad of mental filters he applied to his writing… such a strange thing it was and not a thing that was entirely steadying.

However… he was persevering.  Anthea had shaken off her astonishment at his exceptional disguise and was ensuring that matters proceeded along an acceptable path and with an appropriate pace, further acting to seek clarification of some of the photographer’s nonsense or, most admirably, staring Wiggins into a shrugged ‘forget about it’ when the nonsense overreached the humanly-tolerable level of surreal.  No troublesome areas of discussion had been broached, either, much to his relief.  Not a single example of maneuvering for plots to future books had been initiated and even the most ludicrous tangents of conversation had remained, even if in an odd way, respectful.

And they discussed his older works!  His volumes of history that he loved so dearly but which could not return his love in the form of a living wage.  Knight was well versed in and showed honest enthusiasm for his early writings and the currents in human history that captured the attention of a younger Mycroft Holmes.  Who had aspirations of being a scholar.  A true academic.  A man whose intellect was respected as an exemplar in his field.  His acclaim as a writer was boundless, justified and celebrated, however… it was not the same.  Rewarding, yes, that much was certain.  Lucrative, without doubt, and he would be a fool to deny his appreciation of that particular reward.  But they were not what he had envisioned, certainly not what had been his hopes for his future when he was a young man.  But, how many could say they fully pursued their youthful dreams?  There was always some deviation, some compromise… and he could not say he despised the outcome.

But, he _could_ savor those few tastes of what might have been whenever they were offered…

      “Will you return to the historical genre someday, Mr. Holmes?”

      “Perhaps, though finding the time to focus purely on another area, something most distinct from my current work, is exceedingly difficult.  It is suggested in various media that a retirement is the time to leave behind old pursuits and uptake new ones, however, the concept of retiring is an interesting one, for a writer, since inspiration is not age-dependent and, though I endure my own stresses associated with my work, I have a great deal of freedom in how I address them, including setting the pace of both writing and publication of my books.  Therefore, the impetus to close this particular door in my career is miniscule.”

      “Is it fair to say you no longer have the inspiration to pursue more academic works?”

      “Certainly not!  I hear that call in my mind regularly, but, I shall admit, it has grown fainter with time.  The reason for that, I know not, but I suspect it is a realization that now is not the proper time to follow that path.  Fiction is my arena, at present, and the pull to leave it is not a strong one, especially given the need for me to oversee the details of my upcoming film.”

Knight had been briefed thoroughly by Anthea concerning Mycroft’s role in overseeing the film, Mycroft’s _perceived_ role in overseeing the film and the ongoing negotiations concerning the territorial boundaries of both the former and the latter.  From his perspective, this was actually not an uncommon thing, but he had it on good authority that the specter of Mycroft Holmes’s finger sitting atop the film’s kill switch _was_ extremely uncommon and a very harsh reality with which the studio had to contend.   He’d wondered if that was why, according to reports, Greg Lestrade was personally involved in the Holmes situation.  Greg was a likeable man and one good at diffusing situations when they erupted on or off set, so he’d be a good choice, despite his fame and fortune, to act as liaison between the studio and the writer.

      “I’m hearing good things about that film in a number of different circles.  There’s a lot of excitement for it and anticipation’s definitely building.”

      “As is right and proper, for it shall be an excellent film from any and all standpoints.”

      “You’re looking at Danny Cohen.”

Mycroft peered over at Wiggins who was sitting on his windowsill, staring at him much like a disgruntled raven.

      “I… have no idea.”

      “Wasn’t a question.  You are.  Talked to him yesterday and he said he’s been approached.  Danny’s right for your film, it’s a good choice so don’t fuck it up.”

      “Oh… thank you?  Might I know why he would be involved in my film?”

      “He’d be Director of Photography or Cinematographer.  Brilliant at what he does and for a film like this one, where a lot is shown rather than said, with ideas, thoughts and clues being conveyed with images and expressions… yeah, I’d choose him.”

      “My film _will_ rely on visual imagery to an extent, that is true, due, in part, to the degree of mental narrative it contains and what is noticed but left unspoken by Bell.”

      “You need a talented person for all of that.  Here’s a simple example…”

Mycroft hadn’t noticed that the hundred million photographs Wiggins had been taking of his home had included a good set of candid photos of _him_ , since Wiggins was surprisingly talented at lurking in the background to the point where his presence was forgotten, even if he was moving about snapping photos.  This preliminary set of images of Mycroft Holmes were to give the photographer a feel for Mycroft’s face and body, the physical person he was, as well as the personality and he’d gotten a lot that were… interesting.  Holmes was an intriguing subject but how much he’d be able to explore his intrigue was yet to be seen.  Probably not a lot, however, nothing ventured nothing gained and starting a more formal study now, since there was a believable cover story for it, was not the worst idea he’d had today.

      “Ok, you just sit there and… tell Henry about a happy memory.  One that really fills you with joy when you think about it.”

Mycroft’s moue of impending obstinance was cruelly murdered by Anthea who have him a pointed look and a get going motion, since she had some idea what was going on and it wouldn’t cross any of her employer’s lines in the sand.

      “Very well… I shall begin.”

Something easier said than done because, put on the spot, Mycroft was having a terrible time thinking of a tale to recount.  Many things in which he found joy, such as a proper cup of tea or the first step into his home after an extended period _not_ in his home, were not examples that everyone would necessarily categorize as happy memories.  Memories were of specific events and the concept of a ‘happy memory’ designated not only a specific event, but one with particular meaning and one which inspired a remarkable level of ebullience.  Could tea be so classed?  Not likely… must think harder.  Anthea is glaring and… oh.  Yes, that might do…

      “Ah, perhaps this would suffice.  Actually, I shall strike the ‘perhaps,’ for I am confident this is precisely the sort of thing for which you are looking.  A happy memory to relate and one that is and shall remain very dear to me…”

Anthea’s glare metamorphosed into a ‘oh shit’ expression as Mycroft began to discuss the first two meetings between him and Greg, but since he left it in the area of Greg winning the part of Diogenes Bell and didn’t toss in anything romantic, which she had drilled into his thick skull would be a _very_ bad idea, the ‘oh shit’ settled into a ‘well, it might exasperate Greg since it’s not the most flattering portrayal of him securing the role, but it is true, and funny, so he can deal’ expression.  For his part, Henry carefully scripted the events being described and did his best to keep the knowing bit out of his knowing smile.  He’d traded on their good relationship and talked to Greg about ways to make this run as smoothly as possible and Greg, himself, had recounted this meeting as a cautionary tale about how little it took to fall out of Mycroft Holmes’s good graces and the lengths required to crawl back into them.  It was amusing, and interesting, to see that Mycroft now saw that bit of Lestrade lunacy as a happy memory…

Mycroft was so caught up in telling his tale that Wiggins faded from his mind and he was startled when he finished his story and the photographer asked if he could use the computer on Mycroft’s desk.

      “I… why?”

      “Load the photos for you to see.”

      “Oh.  That is sensible.  Yes, please do.”

Wiggins popped the memory card out of his camera and shoved it into the proper slot on Mycroft’s computer, whistling a rambling, off-key tune while he and the computer coordinated their efforts to make the photos available for the writer, and everyone else, to view.  The ‘everyone else’ now including Molly, who had stepped in to check the tea-and-nibbles status.

      “Ooh!  Look at all of those.  I like this one; makes you look thoughtful.  This one’s nice too, though, because you look happy.  Not fond of that one, though… but, it’s a good look if you want to seem evil and ready to do someone a serious mischief.  Ew… you look gassy in that one.  Not the proper choice for your mum’s next computer background, I suspect.”

Mycroft pfft’d Molly’s remarks, but couldn’t deny the truth of them.  He’d known, of course, that photographs of one side of one’s face looked different from photos of the other side, but this… this was different.  This was an intentional crafting of point of view using the camera as the tool of the trade.  In his mind, he would imagine a placid expression on his face, a gently fond one, one showing mirth or, occasionally, one demonstrating contentment and satisfaction.  The range of emotions here, utterly at odds with those, and the story to which they might allude, startlingly different than the true one, was highly unexpected, but certainly proved the photographer’s point.  The talent of the photography director must be of the highest order and it was not an area he had previously considered.

      “And you, Mr. Wiggins, advocate for the individual being considered for my film?”

      “Fuck yeah, I do.  He’s straight-up brilliant with what he does.  There are others out there that wouldn’t butcher your film and if that’s the way it goes, your ship won’t sink, but I think Danny is a smart choice.  Seems you want a balance of modern and traditional and he’s worked to make both of those pop on the screen to sell the message, as best the script, director and actors will allow.”

      “The muddying factors involved are most vexing, I do admit.  It is such a… dynamic… process and utterly not to my liking, though I must evince some willingness to compromise.  My willingness, however, is only elastic to the point that my work is not besmirched.”

Henry was making few notes through all of this, more to round out his perception of Mycroft Holmes than to type up for the actual printed interview.  The man didn’t move on issues of importance, which he admired, but was willing to have his mind changed if the evidence warranted it.  Wiggins being a berk on first impression had been the portcullis slamming down on more than one photo session, but Holmes had allowed another chance and used the new information to keep the castle gates open.  Greg had been a lucky man to find a way to send a carrier pigeon into the tower to deliver his message to the castle’s king after he’d been locked out and tossed in the moat for good measure.  Ok, maybe he shouldn’t have watched _Jack the Giant Killer_ last night on the telly.  His brain seemed a bit sad at the moment.

      “People fucking suck, that’s for certain.  Know a private investigator to gather blackmail information on the studio people?  If you need a name, I’ve got a few to pass along.  Good at their job and don’t send you into penury with their cost.”

Given she didn’t know if Wiggins was joking or not, and seeing the attentive gleam in Mycroft’s eyes, Anthea cleared her throat and stepped up to do Molly’s job of asking the newborn writer-cum-extortionist about refreshments, which also served to cover Wiggins’s ‘oof’ as she punched him in the back.

      “Oh yes, that would be delightful.  Though… while there is still a sun in the visible sky, a tour of the grounds should be had, else we will miss the opportunity.  We can indulge ourselves with something warm and soothing upon our return for I am most eager, now, to highlight the fullness of my residence, both interior and exterior, as it is a reliable source of inspiration for my writing.”

Something Henry knew even if he hadn’t heard the pride in Mycroft’s voice.  The house was inspiring him, too, and that was a rare thing.  Not for the interview alone, but for something else, as well.  He’d always wanted to explore other areas of writing but, like Mycroft, didn’t see the time available to follow a new path.  The urge was waving happily at him now, though, and this house and the area surrounding it, was lighting a very bright bonfire in his mind.

      “Then let’s do it, Mr. Holmes.  I’m sure Wiggins has no objections.”

      “Are you kidding, Knight?  I’d have been out there long before now if you hadn’t given me the bent eye when I tried to escape out the window.”

Given the unanimous agreement, Mycroft rose and rubbed his hands together in anticipation of showing off his personal touches for his property.

      “Excellent.  And, perhaps it would be wise, for our sojourn, to employ my valiant steed.  It can accommodate three if…”

Molly’s and Anthea’s ‘oh dear god no’ gasp preceded a flurry of pushing the three men out of the study, Mycroft’s pushes being of the virtual sort as opposed to physical contact, which continued until the party was out of doors and _walking_ towards Mycroft’s gardens, with Anthea deciding the males could manage without her for an hour or so she could relax away the last vestiges of discombobulation in her brain over the earlier events of the evening and Molly bustled off to notify Mrs. Hudson that something warm and bolstering might be needed upon their return.  Mr. Holmes’s mood seemed good, but that could change quickly and enforced time with… people… made that all the more likely.  Maybe a pot of Mrs. Hudson’s special hot chocolate and the special biscuits she made to go with it that weren’t too sweet, but added a nice undertone to the chocolate.  Mr. Holmes always enjoyed a chocolate and biscuits break, so a good mood would be maintained and a soured one might be lifted.  Either way, it’d count as a victory and an efficient one, at that, which was always appreciated in this house…

__________

      “Are you certain?”

      “Yeah.  Wanna see?”

      “Without question!”

It was uncharitable to think of Mycroft Holmes as one of those apes who got giddy when you showed them a magic trick, but the man truly found looking at a just-snapped photo to be something exciting.  Maybe it was his large, professional camera, but Wiggins suspected it also had something to do with Mycroft not being photographed often, probably living in fear that every photograph was going to make him look like a twat, and suddenly finding that his fears might be unfounded.

      “Excellent.  The exuberance of the yellow is forefront, not a situation I would normally expect to act to act to my benefit, but it wholly nullifies the pernicious purple influence upon my person.  I am most pleased.”

It was testament to the exceptionally-smart choices of interviewer and photographer by the Super Team of Anthea and Anderson that neither the aforementioned interviewer nor photographer was particularly confused by Mycroft’s statement, taking it with the viewpoint that it made sense to Mycroft and that was enough.  They each had their own heavy ledger of statements made that only they understood or thought clever/smart/funny and felt a sense of kinship, on that score, with the writer.

      “I suspect Wiggins there could do an entire spread just on your gardens, Mr. Holmes.  I’ve seen a lot in my day, but these hold particular appeal.”

Mycroft smiled at Knight, and it was more than a perfunctory, polite smile.  His gardens _were_ unique, but the details and truly unique elements were appreciated by few.  His guests were happily added to that miniscule list.

      “Thank you, Mr. Knight.  I have worked with much diligence to create an atmosphere pleasing to me and I am happy that it extends its charms to others, as well.”

      “Buried anyone in there?”

Some people’s charm was another person’s call to murder, apparently.  Wiggins being one of those persons.

      “Not permanently, no.”

Wiggins was finding that Mycroft Holmes was one of the very few people who could surprise him and there was nothing about that he found objectionable.  People were so fucking boring most of the time, but not Holmes.  Everything about him was 12 degrees off center and that definitely kept things interesting.

      “Had a zombie in there, did you?”

      “No, but the concept of burying a body in an established area and having the grave remain concealed _was_ of interest, so we planted a section of annuals, allowed them to grow, then carefully moved them to dig a grave, lay in a body, in this case a mannequin, for Charles was most beastly and refused to inhabit the coffin I had procured even with an air hole drilled in the lid to accommodate a tube to ensure his oxygen supply, replanted the annuals and assessed the immediate appearance of the garden as well as its continued appearance through several weeks of time.  Molly insisted we retrieve the mannequin at the conclusion of the experiment because… she felt sorry for it and could not bear the thought of it lying in an unmarked, forgotten grave for eternity.  That proved a useful objection, however, as the mannequin was subsequently required for several other investigations and I was saved the cost of additional purchases.”

Henry Knight smothered a grin at the slight twitching of Wiggins’s lips since he knew that particular sign meant the photographer was being affected by this true-life Hammer Horror experience as much as was he.  On Wiggins part, it was getting hard to control the inferno raging through this brain and his twitchy lips was helping work off some of the energy fueling the flames.  He’d expected this to be a decent gig but hadn’t predicted the degree to which it would set fire to his senses, all of which he used when working.  This fucking place was amazing!  And Holmes fit with it perfectly.  So did the staff… perfectly dutiful, but always with a look in their eye that they had things going on behind the scenes that was best not asked about.  He was actually feeling that there was inspiration here for a new book.  He could already see it playing out in his head and that was always a sign of something fantastic.  What was the likelihood Holmes would let him come back here a few times to explore where this would lead?  He seemed agreeable enough if you didn’t treat him like a freak, something he understood better than most, so it wasn’t entirely out of the question.  He’d look for the right opportunity to make the suggestion.  Or drop to his knees and weep, wail and beg, if that seemed appropriate.  He had pride, but it was happy to sit quietly in the corner and stay neatly out of the way while he snatched at this chance…

      “Investigations, Mr. Holmes?  While Wiggins crawls through the grass to photograph a bug or whatever it is he’s doing…”

      “Getting the perspective of a dead body lying among the flowers.”

      “… which is _that_ , I’d love to hear more about these investigations.  Are they for your writing or just… for fun?”

      “Both, Mr. Knight!  They involve elements of my novels that I wish to test for efficacy, visualize the results or outcomes, predict responses by onlookers and so forth and so on.  And, I must confess to a rather shameful degree of enjoyment taken from all of it.  Others do, as well.  I received any number of thank-you messages from residents of our little village after we burned Molly at the stake, for instance.  Also when they chased Charles through the forest with torches and farm implements.  He gave them a spirited run before being trapped by a rather inspired pincer maneuver co-lead by our local publican, the banker and the headmistress of the primary school.  We did, however, use a straw-and-blood-balloons-stuffed simulacrum for the eventual murder… mauling… by the various pitchforks, scythes and axes.”

      “Was Charles again being a stick in the mud?”

      “Yes, though I did not blame him in this instance as I did want to observe the condition of the remains and blood dispersal.  That would be imposing a tad too much of his loyalty, I suspect.”

      “Dying horrifically and agonizingly?  Likely so.  A good driver is hard to find, so it wouldn’t do to make his working conditions quite that lethal or he might quit and then where would you be?”

      “Precisely.  I cannot conceive of another individual performing his duties.  It is simply a concept that refuses to form in my mind, so appalling and unacceptable is it, thus he continues to retain some degree of veto for issues which might imperil his continued existence.”

      “Very accommodating of you, sir.  Wiggins, you done playing dead?”

      “Maybe.”

      “Mr. Holmes, might there be another location on your amazing grounds that would be suitable for the dramatic discovery of a dead body?”

      “Too many to enumerate in one evening.”

      “Then choose one that particularly pleases you and that can be our next stop on the tour, so we can carry on chatting while Wiggins communes with corpses.”

      “A laudable suggestion.  Truly, I am becoming of the mind that Mr. Wiggins should make the acquaintance of my brother.  He, too, has a fondness for corpses.”

Knight’s eyebrow rose in a far more sedate response than Wiggins’s wide, eager grin and Mycroft mentally declared his suggestion a meritorious one.  Truly, this was a most productive interview.  He was, as the boorish Americans were wont to say, knocking it out of the park!  Perhaps it was an ancillary effect of his disguise.  He certainly felt a touch rakish, a smidge devil-may-care… what a tantalizing thought.  Could one’s physical appearance, be it natural or affected, produce measurable effects on one’s thoughts, personality, interactions, behaviors and attitude?  Could a disguise be blamed for a person’s murderous intentions and actions?  Hmmmm… the data collection for that particular experiment would be most complex, but what an intriguing possibility for a murderer’s motivations and/or defense in court.  Gregory would know how to obtain the quantity of disguise components necessary for the work and would make a more than acceptable test subject.  That could be the focus of their conversation when next they spoke.  He surely would find the proposal exciting, what person of intellect and curiosity would not?  Perhaps Mr. Knight would lend him a scrap of paper to begin jotting down a few notes…

__________

Their very long tour of the grounds had extended past sunset, and their reward of a warm drink, sans biscuits, served to tide the guests over until dinner was served, which was a hearty meal that, further, had Anthea carefully studying those around the table for signs that she was missing some critical piece of evidence to explain why this seemed to be a collegial experience that was stupefyingly rare for Mycroft Holmes.  Admittedly, the conversation topics would be considered dizzying, strange, appalling or loony to most people, but within the Holmes household, they were the norm and it was all an amazing and perplexing thing to witness.  Barring some completely unexpected turn of events, which happened in this house and in the Holmes family with greater frequency than any sane person might expect, the interview could be considered a success.  A raging success.  However, she and Mycroft would have to have a talk about disguises.  There was no telling what he’d try next if she could convince him to accept another interview request and she had no intention of seeing his success record racing back from the black to the red side of the accounts.

      “I am somewhat surprised at how quickly the time has passed, gentlemen.  I expected this to be an onerous experience and for the time to drag like the final hour when one is a child watching the clock on the school wall tick down the minutes to the official start of the summer holiday.  However, I have been enjoying myself, something I never would have predicted!”

Rather than be offended, Henry happily accepted Mycroft’s compliment nestled in the words and suspected Wiggins was on the same page with that, since the man’s own occasional compliment was as back-handedly phrased as this one.  If Wiggins even heard these words, that is.  He’d been busily taking photographs of the table’s candelabra, a solid-silver recreation of what could only be considered a haunted, spooky tree, since the main course was taken away and probably wouldn’t stop until the promised cake and cream concoction arrived to take its place.

      “Thank you, Mr. Holmes.  I’m extremely satisfied with today’s work, myself.  I wish the day was longer, so we could continue hours more and add a thicker layer of flesh to the existing bones.”

      “Well, given you were prepared to overnight at the inn, in any case, we _could_ continue this through the evening and take up the process tomorrow evening, as well.  It wouldn’t do to leave a job incomplete.  Such a thing is abhorrent, would you not agree?  Would you prefer to remain here to rest or return to the inn?  I can have Mrs. Hudson phone to secure your rooms for an additional day, if necessary.”

Mycroft took a sip of his wine and missed the fact that the entire dinner party froze in place for a moment at the magnitude of the offer.  Anthea didn’t care if she had meetings tomorrow, they were officially kicked off her plate… and onto Anderson’s plate, since he could do them by phone and wasn’t doing anything else but lounging about in the sunshine… so she could not only continue to keep this on track but ensure that she could say in the future that she was there when Mycroft Holmes’s brain was taken over by space aliens.  There needed to be one objective observer to tell the world the true story before the film industry tossed in their nonsense, which wasn’t necessary at all since the actual nonsense was nonsensical enough for twenty films.  Fortunately, she’d brought a packed bag with her with clothes for tomorrow, as well as the next day, in case Mycroft was in such a torrential temper after the interview that one day’s soothing was insufficient to calm his brain, so she was ready to remain for as long as this would take.  They might need to order in more vodka, though.  It was highly likely she wouldn’t be the only one wanting some when the staff heard the news.

      “I… well, that would be incredibly generous of you, Mr. Holmes.  I’d be honored to have more time to talk with you about your work.  I can’t speak for Wiggins, but…”

      “If you think I’m leaving, Knight, you’re fucked in the head.”

      “… but he seems perfectly capable of speaking for himself.  I’d say we accept your kind offer.  Ummm… I suppose we should retrieve our luggage from the inn, though, since it seems we’ll be staying here.”

      “I shall have Charles tend to that.  He shall be in the village tonight for another matter and can easily combine the tasks.  Ah, and here is our sweet reward for cleaning our plates.  It looks delightful, Mrs. Hudson.”

Delightful or not, Mrs. Hudson was more interested in the shocked look on Anthea’s face and suspected there would be some post-dinner news that she’d be eager to hear.  Juicy news, too.  This whole film business had certainly increased the quantity and quality of news and gossip in the house and what a joy it was.  Who would have thought that returning to this old house, in this quiet area, and being a housekeeper to the most reclusive writer in existence would be such… fun.  Always something new to plan, do, argue about or hide the evidence of and now the scandalous/hilarious/shocking-information factor was leaping off the chart.  Hopefully this bit of information was something _especially_ special.  Especially special meant leverage-worthy and she’d been wanting Katie MacDonald’s lamb pie recipe for ages and nothing short of especially special gossip would pry it out of the old baggage’s hands.  Though a signed, scorchingly-sexy photo of that Lestrade boy might do the trick.  She’d have him pose for a few snaps, print them on Mr. Holmes’s nice printer and have the lad sign them the next time he was here, just in case…


	51. Chapter 51

Things Greg knew about himself.  First, he wasn’t a morning person.  Second, he wasn’t a night person.  This meant that working from late at night to just past dawn hit both of his not spots and made for a crabby baby of an actor who kept his crabbiness hidden until they wrapped for the morning and could do his cranky-toddler dance to an unappreciative audience of one.

      “Lovely.  I need a pay rise if I have to watch you do another cranky-toddler dance, because you’re getting a bit flabby here and there and that’s too much visible wobble for me to manage at fuck o’clock in the morning.”

      “I hate you, Anderson.  But, yeah, I need to put my wobble on a treadmill soon.  Mycroft was kind enough to write that Diogenes Bell, despite his solitary life, was… how did he put it… ‘possessed of a firm, solid build, much to the dismay of many a perpetrator who believed the quiet man in sedate clothing was incapable of providing any form of physical barrier to their desperate escape.’  Wobble doesn’t exactly fit in well with that profile.”

      “That’s what wardrobe is for, so have another of those lovely almondy biscuits this resort seems to have on tap and nice sugary coffee to make life truly wonderful.  Though without the visible wobble, please.  I want to sleep today without any nightmares curdling my brain.”

      “No coffee, I need sleep.”

      “I’ll put whisky in your coffee, then.”

      “Dollop of cream on top, too?”

      “Greg Lestrade is climbing Mount Decadence like a champion.  I’m so proud.”

      “I’ll parade my trophy through London when we’re home.  In the meantime… oh, Mycroft’s probably in or about to be in bed, so I won’t phone.  I really want to hear about the interview, though, but maybe I can… why are you grinning like you’ve just had an idea that’s going to make me loony and you’ve already got popcorn waiting to eat while you watch the show?”

      “Ummmm… maybe because I have super-secret insider information and you don’t?”

      “Information?  About his interview?  How bad… no, if it was bad, you wouldn’t be grinning.  Not even _you_ are that evil.”

      “Bad seems to be the polar opposite of reality on that score.  Anthea has been burning up my phone with updates.”

      “Just tell me Mycroft didn’t wear a clown costume or hire a mule to stand in for him.”

      “I can attest that neither of those things happened and back up my attestment… attestation?  whatever… with photographic evidence.”

Anderson slowly extracted his mobile and waggled it provocatively in Greg’s face, reveling in Greg’s inner struggle between snatching it away and _not_ snatching it away, before succumbing to the inevitable and snatching the mobile en route to tossing himself into a chair to thumb through the gallery Anderson had helpfully named ‘The Interview.’

Not that the thumbing through got far, since Greg’s finger, and brain, crashed to a halt with the first photo.

      “No.”

      “Oh, yes.”

      “Noooo.”

      “Yeeeeesssss.”

      “That’s not Mycroft.”

      “It’s not your ridiculous mule, so yes, it’s Mycroft.”

Greg stared open mouthed at the suave, sophisticated, bearded… BEARDED… Mycroft Holmes, and only remembered to breathe when his vision began to swim, which was interfering with his ability to ogle.

      “Apparently, Mycroft _did_ opt for a disguise, but his version of it or, rather, Mrs. Hudson’s, Molly’s and Charles’s version of it won the day, rather than any of his own ideas, so a clown suit, rented mule or sock puppet didn’t put in an appearance.”

      “That’s… that’s _not_ Mycroft.”

      “Keep telling yourself that if it keeps your tiny brain from overheating and reducing your use to me and my bank balance.  In the meantime, though, see if you can process that his fancy dress outing is a surprisingly good security blanket and he’s been doing a brilliant job with the interview.  Being, for him, chatty and affable, asking questions as well as answering them… enjoying himself, too, according to Anthea.  She thinks he’s forgetting sometimes that it’s an interview and simply being who he is, which is a nice fit with the two wankers he’s entertaining.  They’re treating him properly, too. Not that I worried about Henry, but Wiggins can be such a bastard…”

      “I phoned him and gave him my personal promise concerning how medieval I’d go on him if he upset Mycroft.”

      “It worked!  Or, from Anthea’s opinion, he’s actually inspired and, in her words, transfixed by the house and grounds, as well as Mycroft’s various goodies, that he’s got no time to be an arse.”

      “I’d rather he was inspired by _Mycroft_ , who is actually the reason he’s there in the first place.”

      “Oh, he is.  Anthea says he’s been snapping scads of photos when Mycroft’s not looking, you know how he does when he’s getting the feel of a new subject, and already has a lot of posed photos to consider for publication.  And… are you sitting?”

      “You are looking right at me.”

      “Double checking.  Because… Wiggins will have loads of opportunity to get all the posed photos he wants since Mycroft invited him and Henry to stay at the house tonight and not go back to London until… tomorrow night or even the next morning.”

      “What?”

      “You are hearing right at me.”

      “Fucker.  There is no chance, absolutely none, that Mycroft invited strangers to stay in his home overnight.”

      “No stops in Monte Carlo for you anytime soon, since your wagering skills are balls.  There is one-hundred percent chance he’d do it, because he has.  They’re whiling away the night with him and taking up the interview again after a day’s sleep, at least for Mycroft.  I suspect neither Henry not Wiggins is going to see a wink of sleep, though, until they’re on the train out of the village.  They both know how astounding this is and are going to take full advantage of it.”

Greg looked back at the mobile and flipped through the photos, shaking his head in utter disbelief.  His Mycroft… this fuck-all sexy man was his Mycroft.  Not that Mycroft wasn’t _always_ fuck-all sexy, but in a very different way.  Not this way.  Not within a hundred leagues of this way.  And he was socializing!  Being a good host and interview subject and jollying about with strangers… well, maybe not the jollying about part, there was no firm evidence of jollying, but it wasn’t the most unfounded assumption he’d ever made.  It was beyond belief!  Had the man been abducted by aliens and replaced by one of those pod people?  That was farfetched.  Something more reasonable then…

      “Is he dying?”

      “What’s wrong with your head?”

      “Nothing!  It’s just… I can’t think of a single reason to explain any of this and feeling the pull of the clouds and harps is the only thing that can explain… anything.”

      “Anthea says he’s living his disguise, whatever that’s worth.  She’s keeping watch that everything stays positive for him, but he’s doing a spectacular job with that positivity all on his own.  He’s not sick, he’s not medicated, he’s not under a spell or has his chakras misaligned or whatever else you might think of.  He’s doing this all on his own and, who knows if he can ever do it again, but it’s incredible, don’t you think?”

Incredible was the mildest term for it, in Greg’s opinion.  It was the least expected thing in the world, but the greatest thing in the world, at the same time.  Now that the shock was abating, it was being replaced by the most enormous amount of pride Greg had ever felt swell his chest and he positively adored the sensation.

      “It’s absolutely amazing and… I wish I was there.  I wish more than anything I could be there right now to tell him how proud I am of him and hug the fucking life out of that gorgeous, bearded body.”

      “I knew you’d like the beard.”

      “I do like the beard.  It’s doing unwholesome things to me.”

      “I will _not_ be your audience for that.  The cranky-toddler dance is far more than enough to me bear in one day.  But, it should provide you some nice dreams when your whisky-laced coffee sends you to a boozy rest.”

      “I need to call Mycroft.”

      “You already decided against that.”

      “I’m deciding against my deciding.”

      “Cranky toddlers don’t make the best conversation partners for people who were asleep and now aren’t because _of_ said cranky toddler.”

      “Shit.”

      “That would displease most conversation partners, too, so keep the shitting to a minimum.”

      “Wait until tonight?”

      “For a shit?  I think your colon will make that decision all on its own.  For phoning Mycroft?  I would wait.  Catch him when he has lots to tell you about what he’s done and what he’s about to do.  It’ll give him a little extra something to smile about if things go on a bit long tonight for even his newfound sense of hospitality.”

      “You’re probably right.  And, this will give _you_ a chance to get more information from Anthea, too, so I won’t be taken by surprise if he does something… shocking.”

      “More shocking than looking like a late-night radio man with a sexy music show sounds?”

      “It’s really not possible, is it?”

      “Set the bar lower, so you won’t be disappointed.”

      “That’s smart.  Drunk coffee now?”

Anderson rolled his eyes, but retrieved his mobile to phone the proper studio personnel to find, make or steal a superb, hot, decaffeinated cup of coffee with a healthy dollop of both whipped cream and whisky.  It might be a little unusual at this time of day, but Greg was one of the lowest of the low-maintenance film stars in existence and this bit of unusual would scarcely read as a blip on their radar.

Of course, the berk did have to be frisked him every time they filmed anywhere remotely monkey-like creatures could be found.  A pygmy marmoset could, and did, snuggle quite cozily in a jacket pocket and customs officials had no sense of humor whatsoever, even in cases involving cute, furry snugglies.  Their resident cute, furry snuggly had best guard his virtue because it was _seriously_ at risk but, somehow, he couldn’t see bearded Mycroft finding that to be much of a problem.  Certainly not as much as a customs official being bitten by an angry pygmy marmoset who was not happy to be separated from its cozy pocket and the stupid actor who’d given him a home in there…

__________

      “Yes?”

      “Mycroft!”

      “Oh, Gregory.  Hello.”

That was… bland.

      “Did I surprise you?”

      “Slightly.”

And blander still.  Ummmm….

      “Sorry, just thought I’d phone and ask about the interview.”

      “Ah, yes, that is understandable.”

Is it?  That’s positive, I suppose.

      “Good!  So, about that interview…”

      “It is ongoing.”

      “I heard!  Anthea has been keeping Anderson abreast of events and… I’m agog, Mycroft, I really am.  You’ve got them in the palm of your hand, like this is commonplace for you and I’m just… well, I’m thrilled, is what I am.  Thrilled and proud and so, so happy for you.”

      “It is a far more navigable process than I predicted, though that does not diminish, in the slightest, my rather stratospheric-level of success.

Still bland as blancmange, but it was nice to hear Mycroft’s contented conceit had not dimmed in the slightest.  It was so cute!

      “No, it certainly does not.  And these photos… Mycroft… I had to take care that Anderson didn’t see the hard on I was getting seeing those photos.  I can’t wait to run my fingers across that gorgeous bearded face.”

      “Mrs. Hudson said a beard would project, visually, my formidable intellect.  And, also, make it difficult to be recognized once it was shaved, which was the ultimate goal.”

      “She was right!  You look like the smartest man in the world, as well as the sexiest.  Your disguise takes top marks, no doubt about it.”

      “No, there really is no doubt, though I was most fortunate I had several sets of garments delivered to perfect my appearance, since I did not anticipate that the interview would extend beyond a single night.”

Something you haven’t really bothered to explain, which is odd, but maybe not because if I’ve seen the photos, then I likely know about your extending the interview but… this is a big deal!  Won’t make it a big deal, though, if you’re not since that might be part of your strategy to stay cool and collected.  Only a cad would ruin that, and Greg Lestrade is not a cad.  At least, in most people’s opinion.

      “Make sure Anthea gets snaps of those, will you, because I want to see today’s full glory as soon as possible.”

      “I am certain she will be well-provided with photographs, as she seems most taken by this whole process.  I do believe, at times, she fully forgets that it is me that is the subject of her various photographs, so transfixed she appears.  That is rather powerful evidence that my disguise is wildly effective.”

      “I… I wager you’re right.  And, let me guess, you’re being a bit extra suave and sophisticated, too.  To flesh out what your beard and new togs is selling to the camera.”

      “It is an interesting thing, for I had not intended to do so, but I find that, yes, my comportment is certainly somewhat altered from my norm and it is, fortuitously, enhancing my interactions with my guests.  They, also, are most taken by the fullness of my masquerade.”

      “And by the house, too.  I hear Wiggins is about to explode he’s so excited about your house and grounds.”

      “He has proven, to my extreme shock, to be a man of excellent taste.”

      “Yeah, it can be hard to expect his excellent taste, what with it being buried beneath all those layers of awful clothes and surliness, but I’m glad you were able to find it.  So, what are you going to focus on tonight?”

      “I have no idea.  It is my intent to follow my inspiration wherever it may lead.”

      “That’s… that’s absolutely the best way to go about these sorts of things.”

      “I agree.  Now, if you will excuse me…”

Huh?  No, you can’t mean that…

      “What?  Already?”

      “I cannot be late for breakfast.  It would be rude to my guests.”

The politeness card!  He played it.  That trumps everything.  Well, not everything.  Not a lot of things, actually, but he’s playing it as if it’s the final card of a royal flush and flushed is not the worst way to describe how a poor, lonely actor is feeling at the moment, especially when paired the word ‘away.’

      “I… true, yes, ok, that’s not appropriate.  But… they won’t mind if you’re a few minutes late, will they?  Just long enough to chat a bit more?  I miss you so much, love.”

      “And I miss you, Gregory, but you shall not be away much longer, and we shall have a bounty of opportunities to converse.”

      “Yeah, but…”

      “Will you be continuing with your nocturnal schedule?”

      “For a few more days, yes.”

      “Then I shall speak with you tomorrow night before you begin.  I will have more time available at that point.”

      “Ok… I suppose that’s the best idea.”

      “Unquestionably.  Do enjoy your evening, Gregory.”

      “I have to fight my way out of a weapons factory.”

      “What fun.  Until tomorrow, then.”

Greg stared at his now-silent mobile and frowned.  That was… abrupt.  And bland.  Almost… distant.  Certainly not what he had expected.  He’d expected giddiness and excitement.  But, maybe he was thinking like him and not Mycroft, so there wasn’t anything amiss.  It _felt_ like amiss, though.  It felt very amissful, as a matter of fact.  Yes, even _he_ had enough vocabulary awareness to know that amissful wasn’t a real word, but it was another in the vast legion of fake words that should be real words and not wither under the prejudice and disdain of the fucking lexicographers.  This wasn’t helping with the amissiveness, though…

Only hesitating for the briefest of moments, Greg quickly rang someone who might be able to shed light on the looming amiss.

      “Why on Earth are you phoning me while I’m enjoying chocolate in my vanilla-scented, sudsy bath?”

      “Because your client is acting amissful.”

      “You made up that word.”

      “True, but now that it’s been born, I’m dead set on helping it live its fullest, happiest life.”

      “There’s something wrong in your head, but since you don’t make a living with your mind, I suppose it doesn’t matter.”

      “My head’s unwrong enough to know something’s up with Mycroft.  He… ok, this actually sounds needy and sad, but I phoned him a moment ago and he didn’t really seem like he wanted to talk.”

      “If you were using words like unwrong with him, I’m not surprised.”

      “He likes my fake words.  Or, at least, knows they’re just a bit of fun.  Anyway, he was almost distracted, as if he was doing his duty to speak to a caller, but not really interested in what they have to say.”

      “I never have any interest in what you have to say.”

      “Can you not be… you… for just one moment; I’m actually concerned about this.”

Anthea sighed, but more because she suspected Greg wasn’t being daft.  Her Mr. Holmes certainly seemed to be embracing this whole interview with the full force of his attention and doing that did result, most often, in him pushing other things, and people, to the periphery of his mind.

      “Fine.  My advice is don’t worry about it.  This is very new for him and he doesn’t have any familiar references or experiences to draw on to make it work successfully and he absolutely won’t accept anything less that being fully successful now he’s committed to the whole business.  That takes a lot of his attention, so I doubt he’d have much to spare for anyone.”

      “I’d… I’d like to think I’m a bit more than anyone.”

      “The needy and sad is escalating.”

      “Ok, you’re right.  I suppose I was expecting him to be more… happy about it all.  Excited, wanting to tell me all the details.”

      “He’s in the middle of this and I would expect his brain to resist saying too much about it until everything it’s complete.  Whether he feels it’s courting bad luck or he’s unsettled by the idea for whatever reason his brain thinks is a good one, I don’t know, but it’s not something I find particularly strange.”

      “Put that way, it _does_ sound more Mycroft-y than not.

      “To be honest, I’ve noticed he’s behaving a bit off his usual pattern, but I more blame his ridiculous disguise.”

      “That disguise cannot, in any manner, be described as ridiculous.”

      “You’re right.  It’s not.  It’s… many things.”

      “Many _sexy_ things.”

      “I physically can’t say that word aloud about him, but… yes.”

      “Think you can persuade him to keep the new style?”

      “Since this is supposed to prevent people recognizing him, no, I doubt I can.  We’ll always have photographs, though.”

      “And I know Wiggins, he’ll take a hundred for every one he actually uses, so demand copies of everything.”

      “Already in the contract.  I’m just worried about Dolly, though.  She may have a heart attack seeing her precious son looking like he stepped off the cover of a romance novel.”

      “Forgot about his mum!  Oh… she’ll definitely have a heart attack, then return to life to demand he sign a stack of photos for her to give to her friends or sell online.  Does she know about the interview?”

      “Nooooo… that’s a closely-guarded secret.  His Majesty was certain she’d race here, dragging his dad behind her, and that might have made him insane.”

      “True… his dad would latch onto Henry, who knows nearly as many facts and trivia as Bertie, and Dolly would latch onto Wiggins because he’s… strange, and that certainly wouldn’t have made for a smooth, tidy interview.”

      “We’ll let them know just before publication and see they get lovely fresh copies to read and frame to put on the wall of fame in their house.”

      “I _have_ to see that someday.”

      “It’s very parental, but with sons like theirs, it’s also baffling and unique.”

      “Unique… that does describe both Mycroft and Sherlock.  As does baffling.  Ok… I’m being foolish about my phone call to him, aren’t I?”

      “Yes, but since we’ve established there’s something wrong in your head, it’s not terribly surprising.”

      “Thanks.  Ok, then, off to pretend I’m a highly-skilled ex-MI6 bloke who can do more with a knife that use it to cut my steak.”

      “Anderson’s sent me a few photos and a bit of video… you’re not embarrassing yourself too badly.”

      “Yes!  That’s what I shoot for in every film, staying just below the appalling level of total embarrassment.”

      “Keep up the good work.”

This time, when Greg stared at his now-silent mobile, it was with a grin.  This film was on par with his usual fare, but he still had pride invested in it and it was good to know that Anthea didn’t think it seemed a dismal failure.  Few of his films ever were, from a financial standpoint, but Anthea wouldn’t necessarily think that was important.  His aged arse still had a lot of good years left in it, apparently, and wasn’t that a good thing for his career.  And for his love life, truth be told.  Once, of course, he could actually get back to England so that love life had a chance to be alive and in grand style, just like Baby Amissful…

__________

      “He’s not there?”

Mycroft hadn’t answered his mobile, which wasn’t necessarily a surprise since Mycroft didn’t have a phone-obsession like most of the planet and only carried it when it was absolutely necessary, but the last thing Greg expected when he phoned the house’s landline was Mrs. Hudson breaking the sad news to him that both the mobile and the man who owned it were not available to speak to him at the moment. 

      “Sorry, dear, but he toddled off to the village with those nice young men.  They wanted to have a better look about and he thought it might be fun.”

      “Fun?  And… toddled off to the village?  Are we still talking about Mycroft?”

      “Listen to you, of course we are!  I do admit, he’s acting like a new man, but it’s not a _real_ new man and he’ll be himself again soon enough.  I think, maybe, he could have been an actor if he’d fancied a turn at it when he was younger.  He’s certainly doing a proper job of it here and it’s simply a joy to see.  Not that I think it’s _all_ an act, of course, he really does seem to have grown fond of that Mr. Knight and Mr. Wiggins.  They speak a language he understands and that helps.  It’s nice to see, though, him being more than stiffly polite and awkward when people are about, talking about things he likes and having a nice time.  Warms my heart and I’m not ashamed to say it.”

      “That _is_ good, truly good and I’m thrilled to hear it.  I suspect, if he likes, he can keep in touch with them, Henry especially.  I know Henry has a hard time making friends and would likely appreciate someone to phone now and again to talk books or films or whatnot.”

      “I think they might have already broached that very thing.”

      “Oh… great!  Glad to hear it.  Any… any idea when Mycroft might be back, though?”

      “Hmmm… he didn’t say, precisely, but the village isn’t London, with people gadding about at all hours, so he’ll be home before dawn, certainly.  Of course, he _did_ book rooms for the other two tonight, so they could be closer to the station… Mr. Knight said they hoped to catch the early train to London… and I wouldn’t be surprised if they start chatting again and have a drink or two at the inn before the night’s done.”

      “Oh.  That sounds… both important for the interview and a pleasant, relaxing time besides.  Maybe I’ll try phoning again in the morning before he goes to bed.”

      “I’ll tell him, so he knows to expect your call.  He’s such a fussy thing when his sleep is disturbed, but I’m sure he’ll want to stay awake until you phone.  He misses you terribly and it’d do his heart good to hear your voice.”

Glad to know one of us is confident of that.

      “Thank you.  I miss him, too, and I’m looking forward to hearing all his stories about his grand adventure with his new mates.”

      “There’s lots to tell, too, you can take my word for that.  For now, be off with you, because I’ve got baking to tend to and it won’t wait long for me before it does something rash.”

      “Since I refuse to be responsible for baking rashness, I’ll bid you farewell, dear lady.  Want me to bring home a few Moroccan recipe books for you?”

      “I’d adore that!  Mr. Holmes may take a century or two to want to try anything out of them, but I often make something different for us than he gets on his plate and good food is good food as far as me, Molly and Charles are concerned, no matter how exotic it is.”

      “Then I’ll see you get the very best I can find.”

      “Such a good lad you are.”

Greg never failed to feel a touch warm and fuzzy when Mrs. Hudson gave him her approval, but it didn’t quite eliminate the disappointment that Mycroft hadn’t been there to take his call.  And was enjoying a night out when he was _supposed_ to be there to take his call.  Not that he begrudged the man a pleasant evening, rather the opposite.  He was ecstatic Mycroft was actually making more of his interview time than just getting words out for Henry to put on paper.  Mycroft had been so worried about all of this and connecting with the people involved had to be a profound relief.  And a happy surprise.  And _he_ should be happy about it, too, not peevish.  Supportive, loving, attentive and accepting… that was his philosophy.  Not peevishness.  Never that.

It wasn’t peevish to hope that Mycroft _would_ wait for his call in the morning, though, was it?  No, probably just needy and sad.  Wonderful…

__________

Please answer, please answer, please answer…

      “Gregory, good morning!  I am so sorry, so very sorry that I was not at home last night when you phoned.  It entirely slipped my mind and I left my mobile in my desk, for… well, I rarely use it and it is such a burden to carry when I simply wish to be out for a quiet evening.”

Mycroft was home, awake and apologized!  Much, now, was right in the world.

      “Can’t have been that quiet with you three brigands strutting about.  Just tell me you didn’t burn down the pub; I like it there and Ginnie will probably blame me for not keeping you in line and give me a good knock on my head because of it.”

      “Not a single structure was set ablaze, nor was any livestock spirited away for profit.  Though the patrons of the pub certain seemed taken aback when we arrived.  I suspect it was Mr. Wiggins rather singular appearance that was responsible, the villagers are not terribly familiar with such things.”

The locals of Royston Vasey are _very_ familiar with such things, love, though not from the likes of their resident eccentric writer who crossed their threshold sporting a beard and looking lickably luscious in the extreme.

      “Perfect!  It sounds like you had a good time, love.  Always happy to know you’ve been enjoying yourself.”

      “I had… oh, Gregory, I am astonished.  Utterly astonished!  I enjoyed myself _immensely_ and that is not a thing I say often about the company of others.”

      “I’m so pleased to hear that, I really am.  It helped with the interview, too, I wager.”

      “Oh, it shall be an exemplar of the form.  Truly an informative and illuminating piece.”

      “How could it not be, with you as the subject?”

      “Very true, but a dullard could render even my profoundly-interesting work in the weakest and most lackluster of terms.  Here, though, that shall not be the case.”

High praise for Henry!  You had to be someone special for the Great and Powerful Mycroft Holmes not to think you were a dullard.  There _would_ be a phone call placed later, though, to make certain the praise-receiver viewed the time the same way as the praise-giver.  It would kill Mycroft to learn his excitement had blinded him to how the other two viewed their visit.  That being said, Anthea seemed to believe they were thrilled about things, so… he’d still call, but only to get the story directly from the source, so he could merrily put all his worries to rest.

      “Henry’s talented, there’s no denying that.  And, if you connected with him, that’ll give him a lot more insight into you and your work, which will give an extra sparkle to his words.  Congratulations, Mycroft – you’re going to be the toast of the interview world and not a soul will recognize you on the street because of your cunning disguise.”

      “That certainly is a mountainous benefit, for I feel certain the interest in both myself and my work shall erupt like a geyser once the interview is published.  Anthea is already counting the extra copies of my books that will sell in the aftermath.  Her avaricious glee is both unseemly and highly warranted.”

      “Perfect, just perfect.  Not that _you_ need any sales help, of course.”

      “Certainly not, but I shall not look the proverbial gift horse in the mouth.  The greater the number of individuals who experience quality literature, the better off is our society.”

      “I have often thought that very thing.  And nobody pried into your latest work, did they?”

      “Not even the slightest of attempts was made.  Mr. Knight properly recognized the solemnity and sanctity of the writing process and the despicable discourtesy of those who attempt to fathom out the secrets concealed therein.”

      “He’s respectful, I do admit.  Always appreciated that about him.”

      “I do, as well, and it certainly shall make our upcoming collaboration a highly-agreeable experience.”

Pardon?

      “What?  What collaboration?”

      “Did I not tell you?”

      “No, that was something you very specifically did _not_ tell me.  I would have remembered something like that, even if I was off-my-arse drunk, which, for your information, I haven’t been since I left London.  Even before that, come to think of it.  Probably for the best.  Since, for example, I could miss very important details that you may have occasion to tell me.  Like this one.  Which I’d very much like to hear more about.  Starting now.”

      “Oh dear, that very remiss of me.  In any case, Mr. Knight… Henry, I was granted the privilege of using his given name, so use it I shall… and I were playing the most invigorating game at breakfast this evening where we were concocting the eeriest and most spine-tingling scenarios surrounding this or that oddity in the dining room.  Well, let me say this plainly… I was inspired!  And, my inspiration was a shared one, make no mistake about that.  I have never turned my hand, with any seriousness, to short stories, however, our bit of whimsy demonstrated I have quite the talent for it and so, it seems, does Henry.  It will be a most engaging experience, I feel, to work on a volume of such things, stories of the darkest and most eldritch horrors.  Your photographer friend believes it is a worthy endeavor, as well.  He has plans for his own project based on my beloved home and the surrounding lands, however, readily agreed to provide a photograph for each story in our cooperative venture, to fully draw the reader into the blackness of our words.  Is that not the most delightful thing!  I am most anxious for this to begin, I shall not lie.  With my Adele Flatley books reaching their natural end, this has lit a new and glorious fire under my feet and in my mind.  A challenge, Gregory… a new and unconquered challenge.  I cannot express the fullness of my elation, I simply cannot.”

      “I’d say you’re doing a great job of it, actually.”

      “Huzzah!”

      “Short stories… horror stories, at that.  I have to say, it sounds perfect for you.  And I do know Henry’s wanted to try his hand at something other than nonfiction.  Officially, that is.  He dabbles from time to time with the idea of a novel, he’s even written a chapter here and there, but never pursued it seriously.”

      “Yes, we discussed that very thing and I shall, of course, be most willing to provide advice on the subject as I am a well-regarded expert in the field.”

      “That you are.  I’m sure he’ll be thrilled for it, too.  How… how does Anthea feel about this new idea of yours?”

      “I have not informed her yet of it.  Imagine her surprise!”

      “I’m imagining it and… my imagining is something to behold.”

      “As it should be.  I am waiting until Henry and I have a firmer idea of the scope of the project, then I shall set her about the mundanities of contracts, royalty-sharing and publishing specifications.  Until then, though, do keep mum on the issue, for I want to see her face when I spring upon her our plan.”

      “I… I’d like to see that, too.  Maybe you can do it when I’m back, so we can celebrate the big announcement.”

      “Hmmmm… I do not know if I shall be able to contain myself quite that long, but I shall do my best.”

      “I’ll forgive you if you can’t.”

      “Very kind of you, my dear.  Now, let me tell you more about the interview.  There is so much to share, and I know you will be captivated by all of it.”

Captivated… that’s not quite the word I’d use, but whatever makes you happy, love.  And this is _definitely_ making you happy.  I can hear every bit of your eagerness and passion for your new project and it’s more joyful a sound than Christmas bells.  And with your film about to get underway, it must actually _be_ like Christmas for you… so many bright and wonderful gifts under your tree waiting to be opened.  And, soon enough, I’ll be there to enjoy those gifts with you.  Can’t let Henry and Wiggins have all the fun, now can I?  Not that they can have the sorts of fun _we_ can have, but I’m a greedy bastard and want all I can get from your bearded, horror-writing, film-scrutinizing self…


	52. Chapter 52

      “This is your fault and when you least expect it… expect it.”

Greg knew he was a very, very long way away from Anthea’s wrath, but it suddenly didn’t feel far enough.

      “Expect what?  And why?”

      “My revenge.  For letting His Majesty speed off to horror land with his new friend and start a project without consulting me first.”

Mycroft couldn’t even wait two weeks to tell his agent.  Level of surprise hovering squarely at zero.  The man was positively quivering with excitement the last time they chatted, and it was highly unlikely the quivering had quelled even a tiny bit.

      “I am _not_ responsible for that.  That brain of his got hit with inspiration and who am I to naysay his idea?  Not that it would matter even if I tried, because he would just naysay my naysaying and we’d still be going in a circle like kiddies around a maypole.”

      “Do you have any idea, any at all, of the turbulence that’s going to hit the literary world when word gets out that he’s working on a new project?  A non-mystery project?  With a collaborator?  And award-winning photographer?”

      “Ummmm… no.  But, I suspect that you’re actually having to glue on your knickers because they want to fly off in excitement, despite your threatening my life, bollocks and future pets.”

      “Ok, that’s actually true, but have you any idea, any at all…”

      “This again?”

      “… of the looniness that’s about to hit my life?  At the moment when I’m trying to keep him properly managed with his newest book and the upcoming film?  The amount of headaches those two already are laying at my feet and now I have a steamer trunk loaded with fresh ones being delivered to my door?  You hate me, don’t you.”

      “Hate is a strong word.”

      “I know, because that’s what I’m feeling for you right now.  And it’s ruining my posture carrying all of it on my shoulders, so that’s on you, too.”

      “Can we skip to the part where you tell me what it’ll cost me to take the hate and headaches away so I can pass along the invoice to Anderson?”

      “He already has it.”

Again, feeling no surprise.

      “Then why are you pestering me?  I have to be on set in an hour.”

      “Because you need to be aware of the hell you’ve unleashed.”

      “You do enjoy your ‘h’ words today, don’t you?  Hell, hate, headaches… ooh!  Can’t forget horror.  What’s next?  Hatpins?  Hamburgers?  Handkerchiefs?”

      “Har de har har.”

      “Nice one!  Lots of h’s.”

      “Harebrain.  You need to realize that… he’s going to be nutty about this.  He’s already nutty about it and it won’t get better.  I need to know your hands will be there with mine on the firehose when he needs a good dousing.”

      “Ok, I realize that Mycroft is giddy about this new project…”

      “Pfft.  You poor sap.  Giddy doesn’t come close to describing it.  Not that I will ever complain about his creativity being ignited, because nothing bad ever comes of that, writing-wise, but the havoc he wreaks during those particularly-inspired periods can drive a stone mad.  Don’t think you’re going to hide behind that stone while the rest of us are chasing him with a tranquilizer dart and straitjacket.”

      “How big is this stone?”

      “You are useless.”

      “Sherlock tells me that every time we talk, but I’ve learned it’s actually how he expresses his deep admiration and affection.  I’m honored you feel the same.”

      “You’re not funny.”

      “The box office numbers for my comedy projects say otherwise.”

      “When this comes around to bite you in the arse, you won’t be laughing, funny boy.”

      “First, I know Henry and the last thing he needs is a tranquilizer dart.  Mycroft might be twirling about like a ballerina, but Henry will keep plodding ahead, a bit meandry at times, but in a mostly straight line, towing a twirling Mycroft behind him.  He’s worked with the most chaotic, ridiculous, in some cases drug-fueled, nitwits and I doubt Mycroft’s giddiness could come anywhere near their havoc.  It’ll be fine.”

      “You say that now.  You won’t say that later when he’s got you walking along the edge of his rooftop, wearing a bedsheet and moaning tragically so he can decide if he wants his tortured spirit to have died by falling, in a manner most foul.”

      “What color sheet?”

      “I am done with you.”

      “Oh good, now I can actually go and work for a living.”

      “Remember my words, Greg Lestrade.  Mark them well.”

      “Or you’ll manner most foul me off Mycroft’s stupid roof.”

      “You will _not_ be that lucky.”

Greg grinned at the now-dead phone line, but it wasn’t a grin with as much humor as Anthea might have expected.  In the two weeks since he’d heard this happy news, there had been three phone calls between him and Mycroft and one attempt at skyping that was cut very short since Mycroft’s brain started the aforementioned twirling about, wondering if a ghost could use technology to communicate with the living, and took itself and the body that carried it off to make notes on the idea.  To be fair, in those two weeks, he’d been as guilty as Mycroft of not having abundant time to chat, but it was still disappointing.

What was _more_ disappointing, though, was that he was _disappointed_.  He had no right to be, honestly.  He’d had more than one relationship wither and die because he away filming for months on end with scarcely time to breathe let alone keep his phone busy with calls and texts.  He’d just… never been on the other side of the coin before.  Which meant his heavy heart was a hypocritical heart and now he was reduced to throwing about h’s and Anthea would laugh in his face.

Maybe he was getting old.  Getting old, realizing that he’d found love, and further realizing that finding love when you were old meant you didn’t have the time you did when you were twenty to enjoy that love and that lost time was just that… lost.  Or, maybe, despite his elderly years, he was being a pitiful teen who was away on holiday and missing his crush who’d been left behind at home.  That was probably more the case.  That, with a sprinkling of working too many nights and having his nights and days tumbled about which was making him fussy like a baby.  There we have it – one foot in the grave to just out of the womb in a single stream of thought.  Only four more days of night filming and he had two days free to get himself adjusted to racing full speed ahead under the gorgeous Moroccan sun to reach the finish line and board a plane for home.  And then it was full speed ahead to dive into the man that was Diogenes Bell and bring the bugger to life on the silver screen.

That was a lot of racing about for either an old man or a baby.  Either way, Anderson was going to need a hefty quantity of nappies to keep him from embarrassing himself in front of the cast and crew.  And it wasn’t as if some of them hadn’t seen that pitiful sight before.  Nobody would ever forget the wrap party for _Rogues Gallery_.  Not even if they tried very hard and very, very, _very_ much wanted to…

__________

      “No…”

      “I assure you, Gregory.”

      “It’s _not_ a writing day, Mycroft.  I jotted those down on my phone so I can be considerate and today is Monday.  That’s not a writing day.”

      “I have added that to my schedule.”

Shitty pitty ditty skitty….

      “You returned the missed call I made to you with a text that said ‘phone Monday.’”

      “Yes, and I do apologize, for my fingers typed while my mind was elsewise engaged, and I completely forgot that I had a newly-altered writing calendar.”

Fingers typing because the brain was elsewhere?  That was worse than just forgetting.  A lot worse.

      “Ok… I’ll add that to my do-not-call-days list and remember for the future.  Today, though…”

      “It is a writing day.”

      “Got that, but not one I knew about, so that makes it an exception.”

      “No, that does not follow logically, because your awareness is not relevant to the status of the day. Christmas Day arrives whether you remember or not to bid someone a Happy Christmas.”

      “Mycroft… I miss you.  I miss you terribly and I’m really trying here… can’t we chat for a bit?”

      “No.  It is a writing day.”

      “You _used_ to chat with me on writing days.”

      “That… yes, you do have a point, but that was before I added another project to my calendar.”

He wasn’t going to budge.  Mycroft really and truly wasn’t going to budge an inch…

      “Fine.  Is Wednesday still free or is that forbidden now, too?”

      “Wednesday remains a writing-free day, though it a reading day, do not forget.”

      “Is it?  I forgot that but can I call or not?  Or, hey, here’s an idea, how about you phone me for a chat on Wednesday?”

      “Hmmmmm… I _have_ been lax with my reading.”

      “Is that a yes or no?”

      “I believe… yes.  Yes, I _shall_ phone you on Wednesday.  I can far more easily set aside a book than I can my writing, so it is possible to hold a conversation on Wednesday.”

      “Ok… well… good.”

      “I agree.  Such a laudable compromise.  I shall continue my progress tonight on my work and we shall still be able to share our news.  Now, I will return to my writing and the progress that awaits.  Goodbye, Gregory.  Do enjoy your evening.”

And off you go.  At least you sounded cheery.  And you probably are.  Hopefully, it’s because we’ll talk on Wednesday and not because you’re happy to be rid of me.  Which is a terrible thought.  A mean and petulant one.  But… with your brain, you _could_ actually be glad that you’ve brushed me away to get back to your writing.  Not in a nasty-spirited way, but because you were supposed to be writing and weren’t and so it all made sense.  Arrrrghhhh….

Ok, time for some perspective…

__________

      “I am completely over being your number-one fan, but can I just say how bloody exciting it is that you are phoning me from a filming location?”

      “You’re a strange man, John, but I admire that in a person.”

      “Thank you!  I do have to wonder, though, how did you find time to phone me, from Morocco no less, when you likely have on hand a wealth of amazing, fabulous and thrilling things that all film stars are lucky enough to enjoy?”

      “I’m lying in bed with a bag of crisps and watching the telly.”

      “You suck the joy out of everything don’t you?  Man can’t have a simple fantasy without you throwing your crisps and crap telly into the mix to ruin it.”

      “The hotel has films on demand, so I’m watching _Gentlemen Prefer Blondes_. Does that help?”

      “A little.  That’s a good film.”

      “It is.  And one I will restart so I don’t miss any of the goodness.  Anyway, the reason I phoned was…”

Suddenly not something that was comfortable to say aloud, even to John.  He hadn’t thought this through.  Which wasn’t surprising given it was him, but it did mean he had to think on his feet and being a quick-witted conversationalist was not be found anywhere on his resume.

      “… first, to find out _your_ news.  Anything going on that’s interesting?”

Ooh… very good time-buyer for thinking.  Nicely done brain.  It was polite, too, so double thanks for that.

      “A few things, actually.  I got to participate in a lecture series about tropical diseases, which might sound odd for London, but they’ve seen an upswing in cases due to changes in travel profiles, so it was actually relevant to my practice and interesting, besides.”

      “Need me to provide any samples when I’m back in the city?  I’ve got plenty of stuff I can give you to test and analyze and it’ll all make for some truly offensive vials of disgust to keep you entertained.”

      “No.  No and a thousand times, no.  Keep you bodily stuff to yourself.  But, if you’re in a helpful mood, you should consider joining us on a case when you’re back.  Dimmock threw Sherlock a couple of very juicy bones that are certainly keeping things lively.  Actual puzzles and not simple plod and trod, running down leads.  Sherlock’s been moaning that I don’t have enough hands to be of efficient use to him, so another set would be welcome.”

That was interesting.  And provided a positively perfect opening…

      “I will!  Of course, by then, you’ll probably have these solved and have moved on to a missing cat and someone knocking over your landlady’s rubbish bins, but it’ll still be good experience for me.  So… I was wondering… when Sherlock’s doing his detectivizing … does he ever sort of forget that you’re there?”

      “All the time.  I’ll literally be standing next to him and he’ll make some comment damning me for _not_ being there to do some silly thing he feels too privileged and special to do.  Luckily, my irritation responds well to punching him in the back, so I don’t suffer long.”

Punching Mycroft in the back was currently impossible and would likely not be a successful strategy to win attention.  The attention would be going to Mycroft, who would probably be in a heap on the floor, shattered in body, brain and trust. That could be Plan B, though.

      “Good for you!  Knocking some sense into him.  I was more meaning… does he get involved with something and you… fall off the radar?”

John sucked in a slow, quiet breath and caught the thread of Greg’s question.  Which wasn’t a jolly thread and one he’d wondered about since Greg toddled off to faraway lands.

      “Yeah, he does.  He’ll get involved in an experiment or take on an investigation alone and it’s as if I’m a piece of furniture in the flat.  Those times a punch in the back doesn’t work, at least not for long.”

      “What does?”

      “Ummm… nothing, most times.  He’s laser-focused on one thing and that thing’s not me.  It doesn’t last too long, though, a week or so at most, but it’s not a great deal of fun when it happens.  We’ve talked about it and he is getting better about being… aware… but it still occurs.  His brain is wired a certain way and changing things will be a long, slow process, I suspect, if it ever happens at all.  On the good side, though, I can do all the things I like that he hates and not have to hear any complaints.  And, when he finally does come out of his little world where only he exists, he’s started to realize just how little he’s been noticing me and tries to make amends.  In a Sherlock way, of course, which means being an arse, but being an arse while he’s taking me to dinner or on a few walks or watching some films I enjoy.  I wager I’m not making a giant leap in assuming you’re having a similar experience with the older sibling?”

      “You would not be making _any_ sort of leap.”

      “Got it.  Now that you’re out of his sight, he’s gone back into his little world where he has a fixed routine and set manner of doing things and you’re trying to shove your way back into his line of sight.”

      “That is a tidy, and correct, summary of things, yes.  I’m trying not to be annoyed, because I know… I know that’s how he is and he doesn’t mean anything by it, but… it’s frustrating.  And I know it’s utterly ridiculous, on my part, because I’ve only been away for a couple of weeks, but… I’ll be away a lot, John.  It’s the curse of my job that I’m away a _lot_ and I’m probably overreacting massively, but…”

      “It’s got you worried.”

      “Yeah.  And feeling traitorous and pitiful because I _am_ worried since I know there’s nothing to be worried about.”

      “I know the feeling well.  I know, truly know, that Sherlock cares and that he’d suffer miserably if I walked out the door one day, tossing a ‘Fuck You and Goodbye Forever’ at him in my wake.  And that he’d beat himself senseless knowing it was his fault I left.  I still want to do it sometimes, though.  I get to my limit and have to take a walk before I say or do something I’ll regret.  Price we pay for loving them, I suppose.  The benefits are worth it, don’t you agree?”

At the moment, they’re feeling thin but that’s because my peevish setting is turned to 11 and I’m a terrible, terrible person.

      “Yeah, they are.  Doesn’t feel that way right now, I admit, because I’m a pathetic excuse for a human and have my knickers twisted around my cock so hard it’s about to be sheared off, but… yeah.  I love him, John.  Love him with everything in me.”

      “Except for your cock, which is about to be amputated.”

      “That loves him, too, so I suppose I have to start the kickers-detwisting maneuver ASAP.”

      “Yes, because as I will not accept for analysis your body waste, I will not perform surgery on you to reattach your self-severed manhood.”

      “What good are you, then?”

      “Not much, honestly.  I ask myself the same question often and can’t think up a solid answer.”

      “Well, when you do let me know.  In the meantime, want to hear about the shit I have to put up with in the film industry?”

      “Yes, and immediately.  After that, want to hear about the shit I have to put up with from the prima donnas that pretend to play football for our mutually-agreed-upon side?”

      “How badly have they been fucking up?”

      “Film set stories, first, then the sad tale of woeful woe.”

      “Deal.  We had explosions today.  Lots of them.”

      “Did you die?”

      “Not sure, I have to check.”

__________

Ok… Wednesday and no phone call from Mycroft.  Yes, the night wasn’t near over, in fact it was young, but… don’t call, Greg.  Don’t let your fat fingers tap on your phone.  Do not put that phone to your ear, do you hear me?  No, you can’t with your fingered phone in the way…

      “Ah, Mr. Lestrade.  How are you today, sir?”

And revenge comes swift and sure to the fat-fingered man.

      “Charles.  Ummm… I’m fine, thank you.  How are you?”

      “Quite well, sir, for such a lively day.”

      “Lively… is that why you have Mycroft’s mobile and not him?”

      “Mr. Holmes asked I keep it safe from the rain.”

      “Oh.  Raining, is it?”

      “Not in reality, sir, no, however, simulated rain is not terribly difficult to arrange.”

      “What?”

      “I have to confess, I was somewhat unconvinced the effect would be successful; however I have been proved wrong and am delighted about the fact.”

      “Why… why are you making fake rain?”

      “An aesthetic experiment, sir.  Mr. Wiggins has been exploring his inspiration and we are hosting somewhat of a sizeable gathering tonight, so he might experiment with figures in his photographs.  We are graced by a full moon this evening which is providing a decidedly intriguing illumination, especially to vague figures reflected in water or to individuals gazing mournfully at them, while standing in a cold, soulless barrage of rain.”

Wiggins… you bastard…

      “That sounds very artistic, Charles.  Well done.”

      “Thank you, sir.  Mr. Holmes is having a most amusing time portraying the mournful gazer.”

      “Standing in the rain.  Hence the need to safeguard his phone.  Got it.  Did he… leave any word to towel him off when I phoned?”

Even though he was supposed to phone, but may have remembered _after_ he was drawn into this E.F. Benson ghost story and left optimistic word that I might be calling with a cheery hello.

      “No, sir.  Your call is somewhat unexpected, at least by me.  I will be happy to alert him to your virtual presence once he is free, if you care to wait.  Else, I will notify him of your call and have him return it at his earliest opportunity.”

      “I… no.  It’s alright.  I suspect it’s taking all his mental energy, as it is, to withstand being wet, in public.”

      “Normally, I would agree, but Mr. Holmes is, again, wearing his disguise, so feels emboldened to weather the storm, be it simulated or not.”

      “He grew another beard?”

      “His hirsuteness does have its benefits, though he has mourned, on more than a single occasion, the lack of those benefits in the area of his head.”

      “And the village already knows his disguise, so it’s not actually making it easier for the ‘public’ to recognize him, which is the disguise’s purpose.”

      “Correct.  It seems… his mind has imparted upon this affectation some degree of almost-mystical power.  It shields him from the world while, simultaneously, allowing him to reach further into it.  His altered garments, his facial hair… security blankets, for lack of a better term.”

      “A security beard.  Well, I’ve heard stranger things and if it works, it works.  I’m glad!  I’m really, really glad.  Sounds like he’s having a marvelous time and I’m sure Wiggins is getting some great shots.”

      “Oh, most certainly.  They even meet _my_ exacting standards.”

      “Which are exacting in the extreme.”

      “That they are.  I shall tell Mr. Holmes you phoned, of course, but is there any further message you would like me to pass along to him?”

      “Ummm… no.  Just that I’m glad he’s having fun.”

      “I will let him know.  Good evening, Mr. Lestrade.”

      “Good evening, Charles.”

Greg set down his phone and sighed.  There would be times, many of them, when he forgot Mycroft was supposed to call or he was supposed to phone Mycroft.  There would be times, many of them, when he got so busy that his brain was full of nothing but the film he was working on or where Anderson was pushing his near-zombie self, so he could smile and dance for the photographers.  To be fair, this bit of playacting actually sounded amazing!  Staging some eerie, ghostly scene, complete with rain and a full moon… he’d likely forget about something like a phone call, too.  It just… he never thought Mycroft would be the forgetful type.  Quite the opposite, in point of fact.  But, that was part and parcel of relationships, right?  Learning new things about the person you love, overturning assumptions and misconceptions?  Of course it was.  New item in the brain.  Mycroft Holmes’s memory for things like phone calls is _not_ perfect and allowances must be made as they would for any normal human being.

He just had to make certain never to call Mycroft a normal human being to his face.  It was likely the man would never forgive the insult…


	53. Chapter 53

_ I’m leaving on a jet plane, Morocco, I will be back again… I love you, I really do… _

Anderson happily filmed Greg’s ludicrous bit of song to post on Greg’s website, as well as the excited response by the crowd that had gathered at the airport to see him on his way.  The past two days had seen his client involved in a number of parties, dinners and engagements with members of the cast and crew, the resort staff, local dignitaries and the owners of the various small shops Greg had visited for little tidbits that the resort thought too beneath him to provide.  Now, he was strumming on the old guitar he’d found _in_ one of those small shops and preparing to promptly fall into a deep, drooling sleep on the plane while they flew back to London.  All in all, fairly typical for when Greg had been in one place for awhile.

Once they arrived, it would be getting his guitar-playing actor home to sleep away a few days, toddle about his ridiculous house to slough off this role, have a little time just to be Greg Lestrade, then dive into his next part.  Which was the one Greg was practically snapping his leash to inhabit.  Given _he’d_ had a touch less to do than normal for these few weeks, he’d reconnected with a few old acquaintances and got Greg sorted for some refresher work on his skills and lined up some easy, but high-profile bits of media coverage to promote the new film and Mr. Diogenes Bell himself.  Oddly, or maybe not so oddly, Greg had voted down having Henry Knight do a piece on him.  The very valid reason given was that Knight was busy with the new collaborative project and Greg didn’t want to tear him away from that, knowing how much time and effort Henry put into his work.

However, it didn’t take being the man’s friend and agent since dinosaurs roamed the Earth to know that very valid reason was mostly shit…

      “Oh, look who’s finally remembered he’s not a folk singer and decided to slink away in shame.”

      “Funny.  And you know how much people like me doing little things for them, even if it will be posted online.  Makes them feel special and valued and not one person pelted me with a rotten vegetable or clods of dung, so I couldn’t have been that tone deaf and dreadful.”

      “You were, but the Moroccan people are very polite about things like that.”

      “They’ve lovely that way.  Time for a bite before we board?”

      “A small one.”

      “Then I’ll have several small ones then to make a large one because I’m stupidly hungry.”

      “You always are before a flight.  You’re lucky you’re not a pilot or your arse wouldn’t fit in the cockpit anymore.”

      “True.  But it’s my last taste of this wonderful country before I’m back in London, so I want to make the most of it.”

      “And, when we touch down in London, you’ll immediately be hungry because you’ve just gotten off a plane.”

      “I’m a bit predictable, aren’t I?”

      “Makes my life easy.  Come along or you won’t even get a small bite before they call boarding.”

      “Alright.. any ummmmm….”

      “No.  He knows you’re flying out today, Greg, so do you really expect him to phone to confirm?”

      “Confirm, no.  Wish me a safe flight, maybe.”

Maybe was right, if it was another person, but since the person in question was Mycroft, the normal measuring tape couldn’t be used for assessments.

      “I wouldn’t even expect Mycroft to do that unless someone put the idea in his head.”

      “I suppose that’s true.  I still have my few days before I’m back in the grind again, right?”

      “Yes, and they’re completely yours to ruin as you see fit.”

      “Perfect.  I hereby decree that my seeing fit will gain me both some rest and some sweet, sweet time with the man I love.  Small bites now?”

Anderson shook his head, but took note of the expectant gleam in Greg’s eyes.  Fortunately, he had a private line of information so his ability to manage that expectant gleam would be both effective and efficient.  Though, at first, his loony client might believe otherwise…

__________

      “Ready, you pathetic old man?”

      “Ready, you pathetic only-slightly-younger man?”

      “I had a quick chat with the airline representative and… it’s a big one.”

      “Nothing like a robust welcome home.  Kids?”

      “Loads.”

      “Beautiful.  Let’s have at it, then.”

With an enormous smile, Greg started walking towards the terminal exit and donned his trademark sunglasses when he stepped out into the weak London sunshine.  Seeing the vast crowd of people, with the smallest fans given privileged places at the front or on an adult’s shoulders so they could see their favorite film idol, Greg felt his soul lighten in the most restorative manner possible.  And speaking of shoulders…

      “Am I seeing what I think I’m seeing?”

Anderson peered in the direct Greg had given a quick nod of his head and barked out a short laugh.

      “If you mean Dolly hoisted on John’s shoulders, waving a large sign with ‘I Love You, Greg!’ surrounded by heart on it, then yes.”

      “Good then, no hallucinations to worry about.  She’d have a better view atop Bertie’s shoulders, though.”

      “I feel certain that conversation was had and, despite being lengthy and colorful, a stalemate was the best that could be accomplished.  Sherlock’s not here, either, before you ask why his skinny shoulders aren’t doing the lifting.  Just your biggest fans come to pay their respects.”

Greg grinned and pointed at Dolly and John, giving them a wave that had both beaming widely and Dolly waving her sign with enough vigor that Greg worried that John might topple over.  Apparently, though, the Army bred sturdiness into a man.

      “Well, it does my heart good to see them.  It’ll take me an eon to wade through to them, but I suspect they’ll just enjoy the spectacle until I make it through the crowd.  Car’s waiting?”

      “Waiting and fully stocked.”

      “Then I am ready to rock and roll.”

      “You already failed at folk songs today, do you really want to compound your disgrace by besmirching another genre?”

      “Fuck and you.  Twice.”

      “I feel so special I could cry.”

__________

      “What a joy!  Oh, that was something to remember.  And the little ones!  You’re so good with children, Greg dear… looked just like a natural dad with those little angels.  Oooohhh…”

Greg accepted yet another firm hug from Dolly who was practically bouncing on her seat in the large limo Anderson had ordered for the occasion.  It had taken precisely the eternity Greg had anticipated before he reached John and his passenger, but that hadn’t diminished their enthusiasm a single bit.  Or deter Dolly from demanding he sign her new wearing-his-face shirt for everyone to see and admire.

      “Thanks, Dolly.  And you, John… couldn’t have done your bodyguard routine for me to get my arse to this lovely woman a bit quicker?”

      “And deny said little angels their life-size action figure to play with?”

John had to agree, though he did it very privately, that Greg was good with children.  If he and Mycroft ever decided to adopt, those children would be the luckiest in the world.  Though Uncle Sherlock would make that luck more interesting than might otherwise be expected.

      “That’s true.  Did you see that little boy dressed like me in _Chasing the Sun_?  Knew all my moves from the scene where I fought the leader of the jewel thieves and did them better than me.  And I was paid for it!”

Greg’s knee got an excited squeeze from Dolly who was happily imagining holidays with a few tots racing about causing the sort of fuss that children are supposed to cause when they’d had too many treats, not enough sleep and a family who doted on them shamefully.

      “What a precious little thing he was.  Oh, I’m so proud of you, Greg.  Making those babies happy.  He was grinning like he’d seen Father Christmas!  His mum will have a devil of a time getting him to sleep tonight, I can tell you that.”

      “Mother’s intuition?”

      “It’s real!  Your mum predicted exactly what today would look like and that you’d be cute as a puppy with those little dears.  She knew, as mothers will.”

      “You… talked to mum today?”

      “Oh, yes.  I was ringing to check on your dad, but we chatted first.  He’s got bugs, you know.”

      “That… ok, I have _no_ idea what that’s about.”

And with his family, original and new, it just didn’t pay to speculate.

      “His flowers!  It’s such a nuisance when the creepy-crawlies decide to make house and home in your plants.  He’s got a man in today to take a look; that’s why they didn’t come up for dinner and drinks.”

Ringing about dad’s bugs.  That implied she knew about the bugs to begin with.  The parental welding was ongoing…

      “Ah, well.  Bugs are certainly vexing, no doubt about it.

      “They are!  Look what they did to Stuart’s potatoes!”

      “Stuart?”

      “Philip’s dad.  Have you forgotten,?”

No, but apparently Anderson did, if the eyes that just popped out of his head is any indication.

      “Just… didn’t realize you knew him or his potatoes.”

      “Of course I do!  Well, I haven’t met him or his lovey Phyllis formally yet, but we have a grand time chatting on the phone.  Anthea, that marvelous thing, passed along the number so we can ring for a talk and tea moment when we have a mind to.  I had Mycroft sign some of his books to send along… your mother adores them, Philip, love.  You should have told me, so I could have done it sooner!”

Not that Anderson could answer, since his mind was busily imagining three witches around a cauldron sharing embarrassing stories about their sons.  His mum had _loads_ of embarrassing stories about him… and there was the world’s worst reprobate, Greg Lestrade, smirking at him with all the evil in his black, black soul…

      “He’s a terrible son, Dolly.  His parents have seen nothing but coal at Christmas from him since he was in his twenties and that’s the truth, hand on heart.”

So good on Anthea tossing that preposterous bugger squarely under the bus.  Now _he_ wasn’t the only one with an extra, and extra-colorful, mum keeping watch on him and reporting to his primary mum when he’d been rotten and shameful.  This was a day that would live in… was famy a word?  He needed the opposite of infamy, so that would make sense.  And, because this was entirely in his head, he would declare famy an official word and rejoice about it.  And rejoice, also, about Anderson’s blanched pallor.  God he was ugly when he was blanched…

      “You’re ugly when you’re blanched, Anderpander.”

      “Fuck you thrice, Greggy Weggy.”

Dolly giggled and clapped her hands in the way adoring mothers do and John simply smiled, soaking in the experience.  He’d been thrilled to escort Dolly for her chance to see a Greg Lestrade Arrives! event, because they truly were something to see.  And without Sherlock glowering and shouting, he could actually enjoy every moment of it.  And John Hamish Watson would _continue_ to enjoy every moment of it, which was quickly moving towards the free food and drinks that were waiting when they arrived at Greg’s house.  The heads-up they’d been given by Anderson, along with the suggestion that a bit of genuine welcoming home would do his client a world of good, had set him in motion, pulling Dolly into the mission, not that it was hard to do.  She practically ran to London on her own two feet to help make Greg’s return a happy occasion.

That her own two feet couldn’t drag Mycroft here until tomorrow was… unfortunate.  Admittedly, Greg was here two days before he was scheduled to be, and Mycroft had commitments for yesterday and today for his new project, but it was still going to be a sore point with Greg.  So, tonight would be a fairly quiet bit of fun, as much as that could exist with Dolly and Sherlock together in the same room, there would be eating, drinking, sharing stories and reconnecting with their newest family member, all with time to spare for Greg to get some rest after his flight.  That had been emphasized, too – Greg needed some rest and there wouldn’t be any hullabaloo for the next couple of days so he could do just that.

Hopefully, he’d have a little _company_ while resting, but no chickens would be counted before they hatched.  Maybe a few taps on the eggshell if necessary to _get_ them to hatch, but counting was absolutely out of the question.

__________

      “He’s such a silly pea, but a pea’s a pea!”

      “Our son is not a pea, Dorothy.”

      “He’s a pea and a very silly one, at that.  But, he’ll be here tomorrow, I made certain of it.  Told him that I’d drag him here by his ear if I had to and he knows how much he’d hate that, so his ears and the rest of him should be here tomorrow night, Greg, dear.  Whatever happens after that, I’m sure I don’t want to know.  Well, I _do_ , but never let it be said that Dorothy Holmes is a nosy parker.  You’ll tell me everything, though, right?”

Greg smiled and shook his head, taking a long sip of his drink, which was doing an excellent job of relaxing his tired old bones.  Honestly, this was great.  Having an amazing meal with people whose company he truly enjoyed and indulging in just the right amount of fine spirits so he’d slide easily into sleep and not do that waking up an hour after nodding off because his brain was too scrambled from the alcohol to let the sleep chemicals do a proper job of letting him rest.

Of course, having Mycroft here would have made it all the better, but he had been the one to change his schedule, so he couldn’t really blame his partner.  It was unprofessional to cancel obligations for flimsy reasons and he’d never want Mycroft to do something like that.  Even if he did sort of want him to, should the small, honest part of his brain have any say in the matter.

      “I will shower you will all the details Mycroft allows me to share.”

      “Oh pooh.  He won’t approve of sharing _any_ , because he is green little pea and a mealy one, besides.”

      “Mycroft is the mealiest pea on the dreariest school lunch plate in all of scholastic history.”

      “Evil boys are radishes, Sherlock, bitter and smell a touch awful, so watch your tongue or John will have to roll your little red self out of here when we’re done, and I can’t guarantee he won’t roll you into the bin like the last bundle of the horrid things your father brought home to scare me with.”

      “Radishes are not items of terror, Dorothy, and they were a gift from Theodore.”

      “Probably because some damned soul gave them to him and he wanted to be rid of them before they cursed him like one of those ancient mummies!”

      “They were a horticultural experiment.”

The in unison “How’s that supposed to make it better?” and “What form of experiment?” signaled a three-way Holmes dialogue about to begin, so Greg nodded to John to give him a hand with a fresh round of drinks.

      “Glad to be home, Greg?  I understand it if you say no and try to steal a plane to fly back to calmer climes.”

      “Nah, I’m glad.  And thanks for tonight.  It’s… it’s hitting the right notes and putting the wind back into my sails.  Of course, once Anderson gets off the phone with the producer, I may feel differently, but I’ll take pride in my windy sails for as long as I can.”

      “And Mycroft will be here tomorrow to increase your wind to gale force.”

      “Hopefully.”

      “Think positively.  None of that negative nellying.”

      “Trying!  Another drink or two should help with that.”

      “Maybe you should get a special bottle of wine for tomorrow night.  I suspect you won’t want to be out in public with all your adoring fans racing about trying to catch a glimpse of their returned fantasy-lover, so maybe a romantic dinner here, with no fans, no family, nobody but the two of you.”

      “That’s… not a bad idea.”

      “I have one now and then.  Oh look, here comes Doctor Doom, judging by the look on his face.”

Greg shelved the standard insult he was primed to toss in Anderson’s direction, because he’d seen that particular look on his agent’s face before.

      “Hit me with it.  Right in the gut.”

      “It’s fast tracked.  The Depp film’s hit a snag and the chatter I’d heard about the T. E. Lawrence biopic needing serious rewrites was true, apparently.  That’s two of the studios potential Oscar candidates out of contention for that beautiful late-year sweet spot, so they decided to push up yours to position it this year, rather than next.”

John’s eeped ‘Oscar!’ was lost on Greg who’d heard enough discussions about serious films and their potential Oscar shot not to take it seriously.  What he _did_ take seriously, however, was pushing up a film that was astronomically important to him when that was too often a recipe for disaster.

      “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

      “Calm down, Greg.  It’s not as bad as it sounds.  The script was nearly complete anyway, the principals are signed, and the technical side is covered and covered well.  A lot of the slow-going was getting you free from prior commitments and having time to get your head into the new role.  That wasn’t all of it, of course, but they set a later shooting date because of the existing schedule and that this film would actually be competition for the others on their slate.  That competition’s gone, now, so we move to the head of the queue.”

      “No… Mycroft will be furious.  He’ll never stand for it.”

      “He already knows and is fine with it.”

      “WHAT!”

      “Again, it’s not as bad as it sounds. They made the decision yesterday and Anthea only got word this morning.”

      “And she didn’t phone you?”

      “Uh….”

      “You bastard.”

      “She phoned right before we boarded!  That was the call I took while you were trying to shove into your big mouth all the nibbles the helpful staff in the lounge brought you with the airline’s compliments.  I didn’t say anything to you because, first, I wanted to be certain and, second, see how firm they were on it if they _were_ serious.  I was concerned they might be trying something shifty since Anthea isn’t terribly familiar with the industry.  Not that it mattered, since she grabbed them in a headlock and negotiated an extra percentage for you and Mycroft for the inconvenience.  A little something for her and me, too, but that’s beside the point.   The long and short of it is that they _are_ firm, Mycroft’s not going to roadblock anything and you’ve still got your couple of days rest, but then the game is on.  Hurray!”

John knew how much money Greg made for a film, because the various entertainment mags made certain that _everyone_ knew how much Greg made for a film but, right now, he couldn’t say it was worth it, seeing the heaviness grow in the actor’s eyes.  Besides Greg’s price per film, he also knew and had relished how _many_ films Greg made and… it was a lot.  Certainly a lot for someone who’d been doing it for decades and always putting one-hundred percent into his performances.  Now, he was jumping into another project and that had to be draining, even if it was a film he had his soul pinned to like a heart on one of those fucking teddies the kids loved to hug…

      “They won’t need Greg straight away, though, right?  A script nearly done means it’s not entirely done so they can’t just start cameras rolling.”

Both Greg and Anderson looked at John pityingly and were very glad that the viewing public had no real idea how little could be in place when the cameras started to roll.  Some bubbles just didn’t need bursting…

      “I… ok, it’s true that he’s not going in front of the camera this week, but the clock’s ticking on preparation and… I’ll see what I can negotiate for a filming sequence, but Greg’s in so many scenes it’ll be hard to put off for very long needing him with his lipstick and knickers on, prancing in front of the ARRI.”

      “Do I understand there has been a development?  And Dorothy requires more gin.”

Three suspicious smiles gleamed at Bertie who took that as confirmation there was information he was lacking that he would be happier _not_ lacking.  This would not do and he fixed Anderson with a pointed stare, since he had been the one speaking on the phone for the past half hour and sported, currently, the guiltiest look of the trio standing in front of him.

      “Oh, hello, Mr. Holmes.  I was just chatting with John and Greg about the film.  Mycroft’s film, that is.  If you weren’t certain.  Nothing out of the ordinary.  Standard stuff.  Boring, actually.”

      “You are proving the cliché of the believably-deceitful talent representative is a rather flawed one.”

      “Am I?  My bad.  Take it away, Greg.”

Anderson grinned meekly at Bertie and removed the empty glass from his hand before making certain his full attention was turned towards the inordinately-complex process of pouring gin from a bottle.

      “Uh, actually, Craven Coward, I mean Anderson was just relaying a bit of new information from his chat with the studio execs.  Apparently, filming’s been pushed up a good bit and we’re going to rock as well as roll much sooner than expected.  Hurray!”

John punctuated Greg’s non-Oscar-quality enthusiasm with a faux-gleeful double thumbs up that had Bertie frowning until John’s thumbs wilted like fresh spinach in the microwave.

      “I did not predict this.  It is most troubling.”

      “It happens a lot, sir.  Really.  This isn’t unusual for the film industry.  I’ve had lots of films speed into production faster than expected.  Not unusual, at all.”

      “That was not my meaning.  I had a potentials chart scripted and this eventuality was scored exceedingly low in probability.  I must check my calculations.  And speak with my son.  He should be informed of this as soon as possible”

      “Ummm… he already knows.  And is fine with it!  No worries there.  None, at all.  In case _you_ had worries, that is.”

      “I see.  Mycorft knew… and did not inform us.  That, also, I did not predict.  This… is a corruption of analysis.”

Recognizing the signs of a mental shutdown, Greg proved himself the man of action he pretended to be on screen.

      “John!  Get Dolly!”

John ran over to intercept Dolly who’d already set herself in motion at Greg’s shout, with Sherlock trailing close behind.

      “Oh dear…”

Greg had wondered if it was rude to wave his hand in front of Bertie’s blank stare but had his question answered when Dolly did it and gave her husband a small pinch on his arm for good measure.

      “Right then.  Just the usual, nothing out of sorts.  He’ll be fine in a minute.  What happened?”

Quickly recounting the news, Greg made certain Dolly got her gin and waved at Anderson to keep the liquor flowing.

      “Well, that makes sense.  Bertie doesn’t do well when his maths fail him.  And I’m going to have a serious talk with that son of mine.  How could he not tell us his news!  This is… well, it’s exciting, isn’t it?  I was thinking we’d have wait an age to get our studio tour, watch a bit of filming, meet all the lovely people working on it, go to the fancy premiere and all of that, but now I scarcely have time to find a dress!  Anthea will help me with that, though, I suspect.  She probably knows all the designers and stylists, so she’ll have the right names to make this old lady look properly fab and posh.  I’ve heard they rent jewels for things like that, too, so I’m going to load up with diamonds!  Be like the Queen herself strutting by the press with Bertie looking handsome and brilliant on my arm.  Bertie!  Did you hear that?  Oh, he’s still shut off.  I’ll tell him later, when his ears work.”

Greg smirked and raised his eyebrows at Anderson who sighed and made a mental note that Dolly was to be given full VIP treatment for the duration of filming and in the flashbulb-filled aftermath.  Not that he’d planned anything different, of course, but now he had a shorter deadline to get the ball rolling.

      “I’m glad you’re happy, Dolly.  And we’ll make certain you get the full experience, though, sad to say, you might find that it’s a touch more boring than you might imagine.”

      “Oh, you do this all the time, Greg, so of course it’s boring for you.  It won’t be for me, though!  Bertie will probably get stuck in the porridge looking at all the cameras and lights and things and making himself a mischief asking questions, but I want to see everything and talk to everyone and make a merry old day of it!”

      “I do not!  I refuse to wade into that quagmire of idiocy and cultural bankruptcy unless I am being paid for my efforts.  John!  I see your traitorous smile and you are forbidden to trail after Mummy like her pet poodle.  Unless you, also, are paid for your efforts.  I have no idea what the fee-schedule for human poodles is in the film industry, but Lestrade’s lackey will provide it before we arrive.”

Fortunately, despite the descent into dog imagery, this sort of thing wasn’t atypical, and Anderson knew exactly how to manage matters so that filming wasn’t too disrupted, but the eager guests got their proverbial money’s worth.  There was always an investor, mother or mistress that wanted to see what happened on a film set and it wasn’t difficult to slot them in here or there to chat with someone who wasn’t needed at the moment and drag over a few familiar faces for a quick hello and autograph.  Part and parcel of doing business.  And, actually, given Bertie would probably read everything available on the technology used in the filming, the men and women working behind the scenes would likely enjoy showing off their work to someone who actually understood it and would ask intelligent questions.

      “I require a calculator.”

Everybody looked at each other before they looked at Bertie, then wondered why they’d done something so daft.

      “There’s my genius husband!  Returned from your little think, dear?  Greg, do you have a calculator Bertie can use?  He likes the sort with lots of buttons that I can’t fathom out for the life of me.  Most of them aren’t even numbers!  He works it like a professional though and it’s a joy to watch.  Sherlock, find a calculator for your father if Greg doesn’t have a buttony one for him to use.”

      “Father has a mobile.  There are calculator apps which are sufficient.”

      “He likes buttons.”

      “They have buttons.”

      “No, they have pictures, not buttons.  Find a buttony one.  You probably have one in that coat of yours.  It’s like Mary Poppins’s bag!  Everything in the world hidden in there, including a calculator.  Go and look.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but it was testament to Dolly’s prediction that Bertie followed his son to retrieve what he knew would be a buttony calculator fit for his purposes.  And with that, the rest collected the drinks Anderson had been pouring and prepared for the remaining hour or two of Greg’s welcome home.  Then, Dolly vowed to herself, she’d be making a little phone call to a certain son who had been somewhat naughty and needed to have that pointed out to him.  Luckily, she was _very_ talented with that, having many years of practice to her credit.  With sons like Mycroft and Sherlock, it wasn’t possible not to be somewhat of an expert on naughtiness… often of the most unique and perplexing kind…

__________

      “Mycroft Holmes!”

      “The benefit of using a telephone, Mummy, is that one does not actually have to shout to be heard by the other member of the conversation.”

      “I’ll bloody well shout if I want to, and I want to.  A lot!  You _will_ be in London tomorrow or I’ll toss you in a sack and bring you here myself, like a bunch of potatoes, don’t think I won’t.”

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose and wondered why on Earth his mother was begin so frightfully contentious.  She and Father had the entire London house to themselves, so whatever was there about which to complain?

      “Mummy, I have a great deal of work to do and a trip to London is simply not feasible at present.”

      “I see.  And is that what you plan to tell Greg?  Bugger off, I’m busy?”

      “Gregory is in Morocco, Mummy, so I…”

      “Why would he be in Morocco, you daft boy, when he flew in today?  You knew that, don’t say you didn’t or I’ll call you a fibber and mean it, too.”

      “How dare you… I am not a fibber.  Gregory does not return for two days yet.”

      “We had this conversation, Mycroft!  He was done early and flew in today.  You said you couldn’t get away today but would come to London tomorrow.  I’m surprised he actually took that with good grace.  I would be practicing to box your ears, and box them hard.”

      “I… oh.  Oh yes, I _do_ have some small memory of that conversation.  I must have put it entirely out of my mind, what with the other matters on my rather overfilled plate.”

      “Greg’s not a Brussels sprout, Mycroft!  You don’t shove him off the edge of the plate, hoping I don’t notice so you can toss it out the window when I’m not looking.”

      “You are confusing me with Sherlock.”

      “Am I?  You’re right… silly me.  You tossed broad beans out the window.  And at your brother.”

      “Only when he was being pestiferous.”

      “Which was at every meal, so I have no idea where your point went.  Probably out the window with the rest of the veg.  Now, you will be in London tomorrow night, I don’t care if your plate is full of beans or not.  Don’t you want to see Greg?  I can tell you for a fact he wants to see you.  He’s missed you so very much.”

      “And I have missed him, however, Gregory knows well how hectic has become my schedule and…”

      “Tomorrow, Mycroft.  If I have to, I’ll put your dad on the phone and he’ll be very disappointed to hear that, in addition to _not_ telling us about your film moving forward like a rabbit being chased by a fox, that you’re not upholding your partnerly duties.  You know how he feels about duties.  The sun will be fully overhead before that lecture ends.”

      “That is utterly unfair!  Father can lecture for centuries!”

And it wasn’t right since… since he _did_ want to see Gregory.  He had simply forgotten!  He had been terribly forgetful, of late, that was true, but there was so much occupying his attention that… not even his incomparable mind could keep track of it all.  The blame lay squarely with Anthea.  She should have issued more forceful reminders.  Of course, at this rate, he’d probably forget to chastise her properly about it.

      “Then we’d best see you or prepare for a lecture, a long one, with a few of your dad’s graphs and whatnots tossed in for good measure.”

Mycroft snarled at the suddenly closed phone line and stamped his feet a moment under his desk to release some of his frustration.  It wasn’t fair, it really wasn’t, but it seemed he had no choice in the matter.  He would have gone to London in a few days’ time, in any case.  Or invited Gregory to come and visit here.  It was not a pressing thing; the man was returned and there was abundant time, now, to meet and celebrate the love they shared.  Gregory was in his heart and that would never, ever change, but even his love recognized how monstrously busy he was at present.  Well, there was no use fretting over matters he could not change…

Lifting his teacup and finding it empty, Mycroft stamped his feet again and took himself and his cup from his study, changing from his intended direction to move, instead, towards the room he had set aside for his collaborator to work when he visited, knocking softly before speaking.

      “Henry, are you free?”

      “Certainly!  Just reading over what I’ve scribbled these last few hours.  It’s not too bad, if I say so myself.  Needs a right bit of polishing, but the bones are there.”

Peeking in, Mycroft beamed at the younger man who was sitting with proper posture at his computer, as one _should_ do when one was writing.

      “Excellent.  Unfortunately, I bring ill tidings.”

      “Oh, of what?”

      “I must leave for London tomorrow despite my original plans.”

      “I see.  That’s a shame.  I was hoping to get some feedback on this story, but I suppose that can wait.”

      “I do apologize, Henry.  It was not my intent to leave matters undone.  Although…”

      “Yes?”

      “You have yet to see my London residence.  It would not be any more or less difficult to work there than here.  No, I take that back, London is a cesspit, but work _is_ possible if one is dedicated to the task.  Would you consider coming with me so that we might see our anticipated progress for this session completed?”

      “I’d love to!  I actually have a few things I can tend to in London, so it’ll be a good use of my time.”

      “Then there we have it.  I do have to lay aside time for Gregory, however, that will not inconvenience us too greatly.”

      “Greg’s back?  Do you think he’d be willing to sit with me at some point?  I’d love to talk with him about the new film.  Even if it’s not a formal interview, a few quotes would be a valuable perspective to add to your piece.”

      “I have no doubt he would be most willing to speak with you.  The film means a great deal to him and the opportunity to promote it, in any manner, is not something he would likely ignore.”

      “Perfect!  Always happy to maximize my use of time, especially when it’s this productive.”

      “I concur.  Then shall we depart early tomorrow, say three o’clock, so we have sufficient time for a relaxing drive before enduring the onslaught of my parents?  Mummy will surely be the veritable fly in our ointment and one best met with a rested mind and body.”

      “Sounds good.  And I’m actually looking forward to meeting them.  Your brother, too, if that’s possible.”

      “You will regret every moment of it, but I can likely secure you some time with him.  It shall probably be through his participation in a family event, such as dinner, but that might provide some context for his lunacy.”

      “Better and better.  I still think you need to consider me writing a full biography of you, Mycroft.  Honestly, I think it would be inspirational for a lot of young writers out there and the general public would certainly find it very interesting.”

Henry smiled sympathetically at the rise of anxiety on Mycroft’s face, but nothing ventured, nothing gained, and he suspected a growing part of the writer was highly intrigued by the thought of a biography being published about his life and work.  However, nudges in that direction must be subtle and careful…

      “I… no, I do not think that is wise.”

      “I don’t think it’s going to be as traumatic and invasive as you expect, Mycroft.  Not with me writing it.”

      “Perhaps, but… the laying bare of my life and soul for the masses.  It is intolerable a thought.”

      “Given you don’t have any nasty scandals hiding in your past, I think you don’t have much to worry about with the laying bare bit, but it’s your decision, of course.  No unauthorized garbage, I promise you that.  Something to keep in mind, though, to show those pesky masses what it means to be a towering literary genius.”

      “My genius is unquestioned _and_ towering, that is true.”

      “Like I said, it’s wholly your decision.  I _do_ think you should have your life immortalized, though, beyond your books, I mean.  It really showcases how talent and commitment can take a man to great heights.  None of that silliness and bravado to make him notable, which is what some seem to believe.”

      “That is true… I am an exemplar of intellect and dignity.  Others would do well to follow my model.”

Which is why you are a stellar example of someone whose life should be documented, Mr. Holmes.  We need all the models of intellect and dignity we can get in this sad, sad world.

      “That they would.  Looks like you’re making a tea run.  Want to bring it back here and give me a critique of the opening paragraphs of this bit of drivel?”

      “I would.  It is best to nip writing problems quickly before their roots invade the remainder of your piece.  Shall I bring something for you?”

      “Some of Mrs. Hudson’s special herbal blend?”

      “How you find that palatable I shall never fathom, but a cup of it you shall have.  Only a moment.”

Knight watched Mycroft duck out of his temporary study, then grinned happily at his good luck.  A chance to see Mycroft’s London home, as well as meet his family… it was the sort of chance he never thought he’d get, since the writer was very protective of those aspects of his life, but he would seize that chance with both hands, holding on to it with dear life.  _And_ keep a low simmer under the biography idea.  Someone of Mycroft’s talent and influence deserved that honor and there was no doubt the interest in reading it would be high.

Especially after the film came out.  He’d definitely snatch some time with Greg to talk about that.  And snatch more time later, for a longer piece.  The film meant so much to so many major players, and not only for the profit potential.  For Greg and Mycroft both, it was a labor of love and that was wildly fascinating to him.  Two of the biggest movers and shakers in their fields taking this film under their wing to nurture it along because they honestly believed in it and were dedicated to seeing it grow and develop into something wonderful.  Honestly, it was magical, and he was at the heart of it, which was a privilege he probably didn’t deserve, but he’d make the most of and do Mycroft, Greg and himself proud with the result.

And, with the help Mycroft was giving him, he might do himself proud, also, with this new tangent in writing.  It hadn’t been easy to consider doing this, but Mycroft, oddly, had given him the courage to try.  If Mr. Holmes could step outside his comfort zone to do the interview, especially with Wiggins dashing about like a demented clown, then he could step out of his and try something new, too.  Just had to hope that he didn’t disgrace himself in the process.  Not every step outside a comfort zone was a step up.  Some were a step into the abyss and he’d had enough of the abyss in his life to last an eternity…


	54. Chapter 54

      “Oh…”

Henry stared at the older woman who had worn a happy smile on her face until he stepped into Mycroft’s London home and tried not to look like he was desperate for a mirror to see what he had on his face to prompt such a lackluster greeting.

      “Mummy, where are your manners?  Mr. Knight is my guest and you will treat him properly.”

      “I… oh.  Oh, of course, I will you silly… evil… thing, I was just shocked since you didn’t say you were bringing anyone with you and I was a bit surprised.  You’re that lad who’s doing Mycroft’s interview, aren’t you, dear?”

There was still something wary about Mycroft’s mother’s demeanor, but Henry had more than a bit of experience with that in his lifetime.  Even if someone agreed to an interview, there was always a wariness about what the person standing in front of them might hope to ferret out beyond the general details of their lives.  Besides, if Mycroft hadn’t told her, she could be mentally rearranging all sorts of plans to accommodate a new person and that was enough to put a pin in the balloon of any mother’s night.  Mums did not appreciate plan balloons being pinned for any reason whatsoever.

      “Yes, ma’am, and the one working on the new book with him.  Mycroft thought I might like to see his London home and that we could also keep working while we were here.  It’s lovely to meet you; I had hoped to have the opportunity to speak with you and your husband at some point and if you have time, we could do that now, as well.  Mycroft says convincing his brother into a chat might require a superhero or two, but I’m made of stern stuff when an interview is involved.”

Smiling his most mother-pleasing smile, Henry crossed his fingers that he’d upgraded his welcome from ‘oh no’ to ‘oh well,’ which would be a step forward that he could work with to negotiate a bit more goodwill with the parents throughout his stay.  It wasn’t often he could gain access to family, except for extensive pieces, but he felt certain their insights would be valuable to presenting a rounded and accurate portrait of the man still standing next to him, scowling at the person who ushered him into this world.

      “Well, he’s right about that!  Come in, love, come in.  It’s nice to meet you, really it is.  We just weren’t expecting anyone besides my son and I’ll confess to being shocked since Mycroft hasn’t brought anyone home with him like this is… ever!  But, you’re more than welcome and I’m sure Bertie is going to adore you.  He appreciates respect for words and writing and the like, so you’ve got that bit covered already!”

As Dolly ushered Henry towards the sitting room, she shot Mycroft a look that made him gasp in surprise since he had no idea why he had earned his mother’s ‘you are in trouble, little Mr. Holmes, and don’t think I’ll forget it’ glare.  Perhaps Father had been particularly pettifogging today and exhausted even her ridiculously-large supply of patience.  Regardless, there would be no disrespect shown to his guest for it was utterly unwarranted and inexcusably rude.  It would put both him and Henry in an intolerably sour frame of mind for the purposes of their writing, something that he could not allow.  Perhaps… yes.  Mummy was always easy to distract with some form of… fun… and her idea of fun ran rampant in this villainous city.  Anthea had done little to enhance his life lately, so it was time she strode forth and managed this matter.  An evening of something entertaining for his parents would appear like a genie from a bottle or she would face his withering displeasure.

Not that he would frame the situation to her in those words, of course, but she would glean his message, nonetheless.  He would ensure his words were properly threaded with tone to make his meaning clear and he was nothing if not _expert_ in the use of tone for the purposes of manipulation.  The number of extra biscuits he had won with his tea was full and obvious testament to that simple fact.

__________

Smiling gently, Henry looked out of the window and shook his head at the sight across the street from him.

      “I have to say, the first time I saw Greg’s house I thought I’d taken a wrong turn or had the incorrect address.  It suits him, though, I have to admit.”

Mycroft nodded and took a moment to check that the small smudge on his shoe had been well and truly erased.  It had been petulant of Charles to complain about the soiling of his jacket sleeve from buffing out the smudge, but the man simply had to reexamine his priorities.  A smudged shoe was an abomination.  A slightly mussed jacket sleeve was not.  As long, of course, as the mussing was kept wholly out of _his_ line of sight.

      “I had much the same worry, but he seems content with his residence.  One is allowed to have quirks in one’s personality, I suppose.”

Henry chose not to comment, simply smiling politely and waiting for Charles to open the door of the car so they could actually approach the quirk in question.  It was fascinating that Mycroft saw his own home as perfectly normal, but this one aberrant, when he lived in a picture-perfect gothic horror film set that would discourage many of the more fainthearted citizens from staying a single night under its roof.

      “I’d argue that one man’s quirk is another man’s normal.”

      “Hmmmm… yes, that is true.  Lunatics consider normal many things that would transcend even the most generous application of the term ‘quirk,’ so your point has merit.   Well, that is a conversation we can certainly continue with a soothing beverage in our hands.  Gregory’s selection of spirits is, fortunately, far more quirk-lacking than his residence.”

Henry grinned at Charles and was puzzled that it was only returned as a polite smile and not something more… shared and meaningful.  It had been much the same with the rest of the staff when it was announced they were coming to London a few days.  Perhaps they, like Mycroft, had no taste for the city.  It wouldn’t be unusual, in fact he might say it was wise.  Too many people, too much noise, too much unnecessary chaos and cacophony for his taste, but it was a cross he had to bear, occasionally, for his work.  Their work, however, didn’t require it nearly as much as his, so it was understandable the foul taste on their tongue was stronger than on his own.

As Mycroft used the tip of his pen to press the bell, Henry thought back to the times he visited the actor and how nice it had been to talk to someone completely normal and decent.  It was always a tossup in the entertainment industry.  Many were like Greg – people you’d happily have in for a film or meet up with at a pub for a drink, but as many were boorish, self-important, loony or chemically-altered and those were… difficult.  He’d learned strategies to get from them what he needed for a solid interview, but the experience wasn’t always pleasant.  Greg was one of the pleasant ones.

Not that he looked pleasant at the moment.

      “Henry?”

      “Ah, Gregory.  I invited Mr. Knight to London with me so we could continue our work.  It is only fitting he accompany me to dinner, as he is my guest.”

Greg stared at Knight for long enough that Henry found himself making the wildly cliched move of tugging a bit at his collar as it was starting to feel a touch tight for comfort.  Apparently, Mycroft had not informed his friend about another guest for dinner.

      “Uh huh.  I see.”

      “Excellent.  I, for one, am most ready for a refreshment.  London is most trying, at the best of times, and Mummy being impenetrably obtuse does not define ‘the best of times,’ in anyone’s dictionary.  Henry?  Shall we?”

Mycroft strode past Greg into the house and Henry found himself doing what he could not to even brush against the actor who was giving him a look that was not decipherable at the moment but which he wasn’t in a hurry to decipher, in any case.  Ugh… the unexpected guest.  That was a social situation which boded well for no one.  Had to remember next time that Mycroft’s social skills were lacking a bit of polish and he wouldn’t necessarily consider things quite like someone who was a little more practiced in that sort of thing.  A person who, apparently, was not _him_.  Well, nothing to do but make the best of the situation.  A few stiff drinks and some focused conversation about a project that was important to both Greg and Mycroft… that should draw down the awkwardness.  If not, more stiff drinks.  It was amazing how not-awkward life seemed when you had enough alcohol in your system…

__________

      “Gregory…”

Mycroft looked at the dining table, set for two with fine china, crystal and silver, a special piece being napkin rings that featured an elegant, stereotypical magnifying glass that Greg had actually found in a tiny shop in Morocco.  The incomplete set of three tarnished, neglected specimens had immediately caught his eye and he hadn’t bothered to haggle the price, much to the surprise, and delight, of the shopkeeper.  Two were in good condition, one was probably beyond saving, but a little silver polish and some tender loving care had definitely brought the two healthy specimens gloriously to life.  And, he’d thought, only two were really needed for a special, romantic dinner with one’s partner…

      “…  were you expecting someone?”

Greg stared open-mouthed at Mycroft, who seemed genuinely confused by what he was seeing.

      “Yes.  I was.”

      “Oh, then I apologize for our intrusion, though you did issue to us the invitation which, now, seems somewhat a mistake on your part.”

Greg looked at the table, one end of which was set with a wide assortment of every potential eating tool and wondered if Mycroft had suffered some form of shock that was preventing him from thinking clearly.  Or at all.

      “You, Mycroft.  I was expecting you.”

      “Ah.  But why are there only two place settings?  I have a guest.”

As Greg’s hands-tightened in the easily-recognizable position of an in-preparation strangulation, Knight quietly whispered something in Mycroft’s ear that made the writer nod and tap a moment on his chin as he contemplated the words.

      “Yes, you are correct.  It appears there was a communication dysfunction on my part and you cannot be faulted for taking action based on incomplete evidence.  It is a regrettable thing, but one easily mended.  You have additional chairs, as well as tableware, so huzzah!”

With strangulation rising as a distinct possibility, Greg took a few deep breaths and drew a large, mental red ‘X’ through his plans for the evening and reconciled himself to simply going with the flow.  For now.  It wasn’t fair to Henry to launch into a tirade about tonight and the many nights and days before this one while he was away, so he’d slap on a smile and do his best to do his mum proud in the hosting department.  Then, another time in the very near future, it was going to be a long, serious discussion with the man proudly smiling at him for what he saw as a clean solution to their little problem.  Now that he was back in the country, they had plenty of opportunities for face-to-face time, time where Mycroft couldn’t run and he couldn’t hide.  Ok, that sounded a bit dramatic.  The time for drama was later, not now.  At present, he just had to remain calm, cool and collected.  Be Greg, the affable bloke entertaining two mates for dinner on the eve of returning from a long trip.  After a few stiff drinks, he wouldn’t even remember his original plans for the night.  It was amazing how little memories mattered with enough alcohol in your system…

__________

As he sat in the rear of the car, with his house looming ahead of them, Mycroft took a deep breath and rubbed his neck a moment to take away some of the tension that had been mounting all evening long.  That was _not_ the experience he had been expecting.  Gregory seemed… distracted.  As if the conversation concerning the new book was not entirely of interest to him.  Which, of course, was balderdash.  How could it be otherwise?  The new book was a shining light in the current darkness of literature and that was sufficient to inspire anyone of intellect, a group which surely claimed Gregory as a member.

Fatigue was probably the culprit.  The poor man had just returned from time abroad, which was exhausting even in theory, as well as a prolonged flight, also draining simply to contemplate, so the combination of energy-leeching factors was most surely to blame for their rather lackluster evening.

      “Oh…”

Mycroft’s attention was drawn by Henry’s small exclamation and he groaned loudly seeing each front-facing window of the ground floor of his home framing a face as, it appeared, his staff and parents were busily scanning the street for the car.  Or, possibly, an invading horde of zombies.

      “Lovely.  No doubt Mummy is positively perishing to hear the details of our evening.  Her nosiness is somewhat legendary, I’m afraid.  For that matter, so is Mrs. Hudson’s and Molly’s.  Father is probably confused, wondering if there is an army of the undead shambling through the streets of London and he has a prepared chart waiting to document their behaviors for the survivors of the zombie apocalypse to add to their historical records of the event.”

      “You know, I’ve never had much urge to write a zombie story, but… imagine the horror of someone half-turned.  They have the insatiable craving for living human flesh, but retain their original mind, complete with intellect and emotions.”

      “What a ghastly idea.  I adore it!  Especially if they and their brethren have ravaged the hamlet in which he lives, and none remain but a small enclave of humans, including his family.”

      “ _Her_ family.  Including her newborn.”

      “Ooohhh… delicious.  An absolutely delicious idea.  I believe you should make notes immediately so that you do not let this small spark slip away.”

      “As immediately as I can, given the greeting party awaiting us.”

      “I shall distract them, and you may make the proverbial break for it.”

      “Deal.  Well, better lace up my trainers so my break will be a swift one.   We’re here.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at the faces he could now see more clearly, two of which appeared to be watchful, one of which seemed as noncommittal as was his norm and the other burned with annoyance that was rather out of place for a woman who should be tearing through the walls to learn about his night.  Hmmmm….

As Charles opened the door, Mycroft noticed that the driver stood particularly straight and only cursorily met his eye as he exited the car.  That did not bode well.  What boded less well was the inferno-heat of his mother’s glare as he crossed the threshold.

      “Mycroft.”

      “M… Mummy.”

      “Follow me.”

Mycroft tried to remember a time his mother’s voice had been so… professional.  As professional as that of a hired killer who was commanding his luckless victim to step away from the exquisite antique rug since it had done nothing it its long life to merit eternal staining by a spray of hot, red blood.

      “I… Father?”

      “I am, yes.”

Oh dear.

      “Mummy, Father, I have a guest and…”

      “You.  You come, too.”

It had been many, many years since anyone had used the Mum voice on Henry, but his legs held a genetic memory of the sound and began walking after Dolly as if they were their former four year-old selves marching towards a scolding.  Which, he suspected, Dolly could deliver with a punishing volume if she had a bit of wind in her sails.  Right now, that wind appeared to be gale force…

__________

Mycroft Holmes was never overly content in his London home, but sitting on the sofa in his sitting room, his feet pressed together and his back not quite willing to rest against the sofa cushion behind him, he could say with confidence that his contentment level was fully in the negative range.

      “Well, what do you have to say for yourself?”

      “You… is that a new hairstyle, Mummy?”

Henry was astonished by Mycroft’s quick reflexes, which kept the writer from catching his mother’s slipper full in the face.  The fact Dolly would forget to that degree just who was the person at whom she was throwing footwear, said she was in somewhat a foul temper.

      “Mummy!”

      “How could you!  Now I see why you had Anthea keep your father and me distracted for the night.  Are you… is this one of those body-snatching situations?  Your dad and I saw that film a few weeks ago and I thought it was bollocks, but… that’s the only thing I can think of here, you evil boy.  My sweet son has been snatched by some pod people and this… _this_ is what they left in his place.  It’s nothing good, I can tell you that much.  Probably should be tossed out with the other poddy things like courgettes and those tomatoes your dad likes that are shaped like eggs.”

      “This… I have no idea what has possessed you, Mummy, but it is…”

      “Foul!  Oh, you’re such a foul, foul boy.  How did I ever push you out my lady parts and not have them turn black and shrivel up from all the foulness, I’ll never know.”

      “Oh dear god…”

      “Your mother’s necrotic leanings notwithstanding, Mycroft, we are most disappointed in you.”

Mycroft’s silent startle was not lost on Henry, who had a sneaking suspicion that he’d never heard that from his father before.  The writer looked almost frightened…

      “Father?”

      “None of my analyses predicted this so, perhaps, I share in the blame for I might have been able to turn you back towards an appropriate path, but I shall not own the entirety of it for you are an adult, with a fully-functioning mind and a capacity to reason nearly equal to my own.”

      “Whatever is the problem!  I… I return from a cordial dinner…”

      “IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A ROMANTIC DINNER YOU RIDICULOUS TWAT!”

Now it was Henry startling, though with far less silence than had Mycroft.  He sounded rather embarrassingly like a chicken, but that wasn’t important now.

      “Romantic?  I… you?  Mycroft?  You and Greg Lestrade…”

Dolly nodded smugly and waggled a finger at Henry for good measure.

      “Shagging?  Nearly!  Probably not now, though.  I thought you loved him, Mycroft!  He loves _you_ , loves you with all his heart and you’ve… I talked to John!  Talked to Sherlock, too.  You’ve been a right bastard, you have, and this was the final straw.  The absolutely last straw and… oh, I can’t even look at you right now…”

Henry’s brain went into overdrive analyzing not only the night, but various other occasions when he’d been visiting Mycroft… occasions when a certain actor seemed somewhat motivated to try and have a word with him.

      “Oh my god… oh my god oh my god oh my god…”

      “Caught you by the willy did it, lad?  Well, pull its pincers off because they’re no good now!  It’s over and done with since Mr. Blackheart there next to you spit right in his lover’s eye and called him a bastard!”

Mycroft’s brain was also in overdrive, but the existence of a clear inaccuracy dragged it back into the game.

      “I never called Gregory a bastard!  I know for a fact his parents were wed when he was born!”

      “You are deflecting, Mycroft, and it does you no credit.”

Mycroft gasped softly at the sharpness of his father’s voice and the steely glint in his eyes.  Whatever was the matter, his father was fully on board and that… that meant it could not be dismissed as a dyspeptic episode of his mother’s always-simmering hyperbole.  Even Henry Knight seemed to understand!

      “Oh my fucking god… I cock-blocked Greg Lestrade!  No wonder he was tetchy!  He’s going to kill me.  Kill me fucking dead.  He can do it, too!  It’s not all fake on the screen, you know… I’ve seen him play a bit of footie with his mates and they take real pleasure annihilating each other.  I’m not built for that!  I can’t even throw a proper punch and he’ll be chasing me down with a cricket bat and a butcher knife… I’m so fucked.”

Mycroft stared at Henry who was quickly unravelling as the truth of the situation hit him, then at his Father who was also staring at Henry, but with more of a Sigmund Freud observing a patient on his sofa sort of stare.  He could make no sense of it!

      “Mummy?  I… what is going on?”

Dolly heard the genuine upset and confusion in her son’s voice and her anger ebbed a bit.  He was infuriating!  But… he was also so, so lost…

      “What is going on is that you’ve thrown away a good and loving man because you’ve chosen to devote every bit of your attention and care to this new business of yours and left not even a shred of it for him.  He’s phoned and you don’t answer.  You’re supposed to phone and don’t.  When you _do_ chat, it’s brief and all about your new book.  Did you even ask him tonight about his trip?  Oh, look at that face… realizing that you monopolized the conversation and didn’t show any interest in him and his work?  He’s hurt, Mycroft.  And has a right to be!  He’s hurt, feeling abandoned and I can’t say that isn’t what’s actually happened.  You’ve chased your shiny new project down the rabbit hole and left him sitting alone, wondering what went wrong.  Now… I can forgive a lot because I raised you and know… well, I know how things can be.  Greg does, too, surprisingly.  But his is a bridge too far, young man.  You even forgot he was coming home!  And I nearly had to drag you to London myself, _after_ dragging your head out of your arse, because you couldn’t be bothered to come and welcome him back.  He planned a lovely evening for the both of you and… I know you miss things, dear, I know things can fly right over that head of yours, but did it really _never_ occur to you that he might want to spend some time alone with you tonight?  Or was it that you just had no interest in spending any time alone with _him_ because he just doesn’t matter to you anymore?”

Mycroft’s bottom lip began to tremble and his breathing quickened and deepened until he was nearly hyperventilating when he burst off the sofa and ran towards his study slamming the door behind him, something Dolly watched with a growing sadness.

      “Well… I didn’t want to do that, but it was time.  Past time, really.  We may have to keep more of an eye on him than we thought Bertie, dear.  He’s just not as ready for a relationship as we hoped, I suspect.”

Bertie nodded slowly and Dolly could see the wheels turning furiously in his mind as he began crafting plans and strategies to help his son move forward.  He was good at that and maybe, just maybe, he’d draw together bits and pieces that would help keep their son from wandering off again and ruining something that was as wonderful as the love of someone as wonderful as Greg.

      “I’m so, so sorry, Mrs. Holmes.  I genuinely had no idea what was going on.”

Dolly’s sad eyes turned to Henry, who looked as if he’d just kicked a puppy.

      “I know you didn’t, Henry, and we don’t blame you for a bit of it.  Neither of them wants things known because… well, you can expect why for each their own reasons, but _we_ knew and… oh, I blame myself more than anything.  A mother knows. and I _did_ know, somehow.  Knew something had gone a bit foul, but I thought it was just Greg being away.  Mycroft doesn’t do well with change and it _was_ a change, but… I thought he’d manage.  He was doing so well!  Oh, it was the joy of my life to see him opening up like a beautiful flower… well, we’ll see what we’ll see, but…”

The ‘but’ was completely drowned out by a loud, sharp crash from Mycroft’s study, sounding as if something large and glassy had collided with a wall, a sound that had Dolly, Bertie and Henry racing towards the study door, only to find it locked, which was enormously worrying given the continued shower of thuds slamming into the walls, the unmistakable sound of a window breaking and a riot of additional chaos that vaulted skywards their worry for the man behind the locked door.

      “What… Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, what do we do?”

Dolly sighed, looked at her husband and saw her thinking reflected in his eyes.

      “Bertie, get the locked sorted but leave the door closed.  I have a phone call to make.”

Dolly squared her shoulders and walked away to get her mobile.  Yes, she had a call to make, but she could only hope the person she was calling was still willing to answer _and_ to wade in to be the white knight for her dear, stupid son.  She couldn’t blame him if he didn’t but if Mycroft’s head was going to be screwed back onto his neck, the person best able to do it was the one it got unscrewed over in the first place…


	55. Chapter 55

Greg wasn’t entirely certain whether he should be kicking himself right now or feeling proud that when Dolly called his instincts were to race over to help the man he loved.  The kicking was probably what he deserved.  Why should he have to be the understanding one?  The one who would clean up the mess, sweep up the broken bits and see what he could do to piece if all back together?  Nobody raced forward to do any of that for him.  Not that he’d needed it or even made it known that he might could have used a bit of sweeping and cleaning, but… he was allowed to be peevish.

Bringing Henry to their dinner.  How… how utterly clueless or callous did a person have to be to do that?  They hadn’t seen each other in _weeks_ and Mycroft brings along a little pal to their first chance to reconnect.  Couldn’t have said in louder terms that he just didn’t care about their relationship anymore.  Their personal relationship, that is.

He needed sleep.  Sleep and a chance to let the anger and hurt settle in his brain so he could look at things more objectively tomorrow. He loved Mycroft, he truly did, and taking rash action based purely on emotion wasn’t smart.  Take time to think through things, add in whatever he heard from Mycroft tonight and… see what became of it all.  He’d made a lot of bad decisions by acting quickly.  Acting on an emotional response, a particularly-persuasive bit of flattery or hurt feelings, and he couldn’t afford to do that again.  The stakes were too high.  If Mycroft was the right person for him, which his heart said was the case, except for now, then great.  If Mycroft was the wrong person for him, which his heart was saying _now_ was the case, then great.  Well, not great, but ok.  Acceptable.  Resolved.

And there was Mycroft’s house not giving him a fucking clue as to which of those was the way tonight would lean.  Fucking house.  No wonder Mycroft didn’t like it.  Not a bit of help when it was most sorely needed…

__________

      “Oh, Greg….”

Dolly took Greg in a long, firm hug that made him even more unsure about how to proceed since he couldn’t tell if it was a hug for comfort and strength or one to say goodbye.

      “Well, I’m here.  So, what’s…”

Jumping nearly out of his shoes at the sound of what was probably something large and heavy crashing against a wall, Greg decided his question of ‘So, what’s the status?’ was unnecessary.

      “Is… is someone in there with him making sure he’s ok?”

Dolly shook her head and linked her arm with Greg’s, patting him on his sleeve as she walked him towards the kitchen where it was quieter.

      “He won’t hurt himself, if that’s your worry.”

      “It sounds like he will!”

      “No, he won’t.  It’s… it’s more of a punishment if he doesn’t.”

Greg’s face twisted into a highly-confused stare, but he let himself be led away from the chaos and towards a quiet chat, instead of running towards the carnage to check that Mycroft wasn’t a bloody and bruised mass of very distressed flesh.

      “There, dear, you have a seat and I’ll put the kettle on.  I suggested Martha and the others get some rest while Bertie and I manage things as best we can.  They’ll have enough to do tomorrow not to have to face it without a good night’s sleep to their credit.”

      “But… what _is_ going on?  I know you told me you gave him the what for about bringing Henry to dinner tonight, but… this?  _This_ is how he reacted?  This is one of his meltdowns, isn’t it?”

Dolly sighed and drew down two heavy mugs from the cupboard in preparation for what was a much-needed cup of tea.

      “Not exactly.  When Mycroft has a meltdown it’s from… frustration, overstimulation, feeling overwhelmed… and, yes, he can cause himself harm if someone’s not keeping an eye on him.  Nothing permanent, mind you, but pulling out bits of hair, hitting himself, that sort of thing.  He’s better about that now, much better, and he’s learned some other things to do that help with everything is just too much for him to handle, but… this is a different thing.  He’s not had one of these since… oh, maybe his oh, it’s been many years and aren’t we thankful for it!”

Greg was still as much in the dark as before, but suspected Dolly would get to the point eventually with enough prodding.

      “Why isn’t it the same?”

Taking a moment to pour the water into the mugs, Dolly brought their tea to the kitchen table and had a seat across from Greg.

      “Mycroft is… different.  The sort of different that’s different from the ways that _all_ of us are different but are still considered normal.  Know what I mean?”

      “Yeah, that’s been obvious since the first day I met him.”

      “It _is_ obvious, isn’t it?  He doesn’t care about it, though. Doesn’t really consider himself to be different, just himself.  He doesn’t focus on the things that set him apart, he simply goes on with his life, doing what he wants to do and that’s that.  He’s fine with at all and with the person he is.  Usually.”

A tiny flicker of a small lightbulb began to sputter in Greg’s mind.

      “Sometimes, though… sometimes he sees it.  Can’t help but see it and… oh, what it does to him.  I remember once, he’d applied for a slot at college, a very exclusive program for history types and they were very eager to have him, based on his school marks and the essays they’d had him write.  But… it involved a personal interview.  Bertie worked with him, it seemed like night and day Bertie worked with him to prepare, did practice interviews and talked about how to handle the sorts of questions he might be asked.  We made sure he was looking his best and had a few things along that… well, they made him feel better when he was nervous.”

Dolly took a long sip of her tea and smiled wistfully.

      “Mycroft gets into the interview and it was three people there, which already had him off-footed since he didn’t expect that, but one gent had a purple tie and you know how Mycroft can be about purple.  Another pronounced certain words wrong, there was a large bouquet of flowers in the office that were _very_ sweet smelling…”

      “He couldn’t do it.  Mycroft couldn’t through with the interview.”

      “He tried, but… it was too much at once.  So, he started focusing on those things and not why he was there.  His brain got stuck in a gear and he couldn’t shift it to another.  He wanted the tie removed, the flowers gone, the one who had a problem with words to not talk anymore and got upset when they wouldn’t do it … it was a disaster.  He’d _desperately_ wanted that chance, wanted it as badly as he’d wanted anything and if he wasn’t… different… he would have had it.  To this day, I’m not certain how he actually made it home before he came apart, but he did, and he took his bedroom nearly down to the wall studs when he was done.  He’d locked the door and his window had been stuck shut for ages so all we could do is look through it and pound on the glass until we realized what he was doing and that he wasn’t going to do _himself_ any actual harm.  That’s what got Bertie learning how to pick locks and such so that we could get to him if we had to in the future, though.  Anyway… Mycroft destroyed everything he owned, all the things he’d collected, loved… hated himself so much that he took away every single thing that he cared about, that made him happy, because he didn’t deserve them.  He was wrong.  Broken.  Worthless… oh, what we finally got out of him once he calmed down enough to talk...  He’d had smaller versions of this sort of event before when he was a lad, but… I honestly believe he thought that he’d grown beyond it all.  That all the horrid little brats at school who teased him and the adults who looked down on him… he was older and… _better_ … and who he was would never hurt him again.  That who he was… was good.”

Greg simply sat staring at Dolly who looked sadder and older than he’d ever seen her and felt a strong pang of emotion fill his heart for the mother who had to see her son suffer so terribly.

      “Years later, when he had his first book published, that one you’re doing the movie for… he was invited to give a talk about his book and his writing.  Anthea’s dad was with him then and he thought it would be a good idea and, odd as it seems, Mycroft did, too.  It was for one of those book societies, a serious one, not ladies to get together to chat about the new thriller they’ve read while sipping wine, which is the sort I fancy, but… Mycroft was actually eager to talk to people who were serious about writing and books and literature and the like.  And, it was a chance to show his stuff!  He can be terribly egotistical and the idea that his first book was gaining notice… he wasn’t unhappy about it, I can tell you.   Not that he cared what the average person thought, besides how much money it was making him so he could keep his head above water, but people he considered learned and important.  People his dad might have mentioned or he’d read their stuff and critiques and whatnot.”

      “And, again, he couldn’t do it.”

      “Everything was fine until they got to the place he was going to speak, which was a lovely old library.  Bertie had been so jealous!  Well… Mycroft had a bit of time to kill before they needed him, so he started to look about.  I have no idea why they didn’t have everything locked up tightly, maybe it was so people _could_ do what Mycroft did that night, but… well, he wandered into some little room filled with books and… oh, he just got lost in them.  Dennis, that was Anthea’s dad, had to come and find him and every time he told Mycroft it was time for his speech, Mycroft said just a minute more and Dennis would go back and say he was almost ready.  I think that happened a dozen times before Dennis told them that Mycroft had been taken ill and he, himself, got up there and gave the talk, which he’d helped Mycroft with anyway, so he knew what to say.  When it was done, he went back and there was Mycroft, still deep in the books he’d found and utterly unaware of the world around him.  Unfortunately, when Dennis was finally able to drag him away, Mycroft got a face full of it by the person who organized the whole thing.  I don’t think Mycroft even realized, maybe even remembered, that he’d made such mess of his appearance until this man and a few others were yelling at him.”

The tiny flicker grew a few lux in intensity.

      “His brain, you see… it got into a rut and he couldn’t pull it out.  He’d never wanted to talk in front of people, positively hated the idea, and the one time he did want it, the one time it meant something, was special to him… he made a dog’s breakfast of the whole business.  The only good thing about it all was that Dennis learned that he’d have to do something besides give gentle reminders next time something like that happened.  Smack the silly thing with a rolled newspaper or take away what has him fixated.  Physically move his location.  Something to get the little gears in his head spinning in another direction.  That time, though… Mycroft’s bad turn started in the car and it was a good thing he was in the rear seat so dear Dennis could actually drive him to his flat.  He phoned us to let us know and Bertie, bless him, jumped in a cab, which we only had one of in our village and the driver was at home enjoying a bit of telly, and paid a bloody fortune to go to London and manage the aftermath.  Dennis was so good and stayed until Bertie got there just to be certain Mycroft didn’t do himself a mischief, but it didn’t spare my son’s flat from being turned into a scrapheap.”

Greg finally took a sip of his lukewarm tea and felt the knot in his chest both tighten and relax simultaneously, which was not a sensation he’d recommend for the average person.

      “Did it… ummm… did that sort of thing happen often?  Getting his brain stuck, that is.”

      “Oh, it certainly did.  And still does!  Not as often as when he was younger, but Anthea and Mrs. Hudson often have to do a bit of newspaper bopping to pull him out of a ditch.  Now, I know what you’re thinking, and I can’t say you don’t have a right to worry.  This whole mess he’s made… it’s awful, that’s what it is, and I wish my slipper _had_ hit him in his evil face for treating you that way.  I can’t give you any guarantees it won’t happen again.  His dad still does that sort of thing to me and we’ve been married since Queen Victoria was swanning about!  Mycroft does come by who he is honestly, that’s for certain.  I’ll be going on about something and I realize that Bertie isn’t paying the slightest bit of attention because that attention got distracted by something else and he’s all in with that now, no matter what it is I’ve been saying.  Just a month ago, you’ll like this one, there was a cinema showing some old William Powell films and I do adore him… it’s almost scandalous how much I adore him… and Bertie said it was too far to go, it _was_ over an hour by train, you see,  and it’d take the whole day and we had some this’s and that’s to do about the house and errands and such… well, he goes off to buy a few things at the shops to fix a door we’d had problems with and I wonder what’s going on when he’s not home after an hour or so.  I phone him and wouldn’t you know it… he’d run into Theodore who mentioned there was one of those charity book sales a few villages along and off they toddled to go treasure hunting!  Oh, the piece of my mind I gave him was a big one, let me tell you.  And, if you’re going to ask, it never entered his mind that he’d just told me that we couldn’t go off for a day of fun.  His brain got stuck!  As soon as he was on the track of new… well, old… books, I doubt he even remembered he was married until I phoned and got a bit shouty.”

      “I… I understand that, but that’s an isolated incident.  Mycroft’s… he seemed to lose interest in me as soon as I left and nothing I did could get it back.”

      “Did you get shouty?”

      “Uhhh… no, not exactly, but…”

      “You need to get shouty.  Or put salt in his tea or something equally rotten to break into that thick head of his.  Now, it’s true, not that it’s good for you, but it is true that Mycroft can get more stuck and has more… little issues… than his dad, but don’t think the man you know now is the Bertie Holmes I first met.  Or first married!  Let me be honest, he was _much_ worse then.  Not intentionally, never that, but there were times I wanted to wring his silly neck for being horrid.  Sometimes I did!  Not the actual wringing, but I’d… once, I grabbed his bowtie off his neck, threw it into the fire and said that’s what I wanted to do with him!  Put my finger right in his face so close he had to cross his eyes to see it.  Backed him into a corner with that pointy finger and gave him a shouty few minutes that spelled out precisely why he’d been a bastard and how it made me feel.”

      “And it worked?”

Dolly found herself laughing and remembering the look on her boyfriend’s face that day many years ago.

      “Mostly.  Bertie started to cry because I’d scared and overwhelmed him, so I couldn’t keep my anger up, but it got his attention!  And gave us a chance to talk, really talk, about why I was upset and what he was doing that got me that way.  In the end, I promised not to corner him like that ever again, which really _was_ dreadful of me, and we started working on ways for me to get him to refocus or stop what he was doing and just listen to what I’m saying.  I won’t say it was easy and, like I said, he still falls into familiar patterns, but it’s a damned sight better than it was.  And, I know, truly know, that he’s trying, even when he doesn’t quite succeed.”

Dolly reached over to pick up Greg’s mostly-untouched tea and rose to get a fresh cup started.

      “I’m not perfect either, Greg, don’t forget.  I’m loud, and can be a bit thick about things… I suspect I embarrass Bertie more often than he lets me know… which he does with a certain pattern of tapping on his chin.  We can play balance the accounts all day, but at the end of it, you have to decide if the numbers and things are alright with you.  It’ll never perfectly balance, I don’t that ever happens with anyone, but I’ll also concede it… well, it can feel rather lopsided, at times.”

      “Is it worth it?”

Greg actually surprised himself by letting the question push his way out of his mind and onto his tongue.

      “I guess that depends on the person making the decision.  For me… yes.  Yes, it is absolutely worth it.  There are costs to be paid, but I accepted them a long time ago and haven’t had any reason to change my mind.  At least not for more than an irritated afternoon or a night of Bertie having the sofa for his bed because he’s taken apart my new toaster to get some bit or piece he wanted to fix one of his gadgets.  If you’d asked me years ago, though… I wouldn’t have been as quick to answer.  I had my periods of asking that very same question.  But, I learned that if I didn’t just sit there asking me and me alone and dragged _his_ silly arse into the conversation, it made a difference.  And I learned to do a fair bit of newspaper bopping and getting shouty when it was needed so he’d actually _hear_ me when I was trying to stop one of those periods from landing on my head.  I won’t lie, though.  It was, and still sometimes is, a lot of work.  This is an area they struggle with, despite being geniuses, and they always will.  Bertie got better, loads better, but it took time and effort and he’ll always struggle.  Which is something he knows and… well, don’t think he has his own moments when he _sees_ who he is and isn’t happy about it.  It won’t be any different or easier with Mycroft.  Might be harder, actually, since there will be a lot of times you won’t be right there with him to have that face-to-face bit of shouting or bopping.  Know this, though… he _will_ try.  He _will_ do his best and work his hardest to be the sort of person you deserve.  I don’t have a crystal ball, though, to say whether or not, even with his best efforts, it’ll be enough.  I just can’t.”

Greg nodded and stared down at his hands, which vaguely were still in the position he’d left them when he set down his mug.

      “Can I ask…”

      “Anything, love.  Now, later, it doesn’t matter because Bertie and I will always be there to listen and help if we can.”

      “I… thanks.  That means a lot.  What I guess I need to know is… it’s been weeks.  And I admit I didn’t get shouty, but I did think I made it clear that I wasn’t happy.  Could he really miss that?  For that long?”

Greg wasn’t expecting Dolly to laugh at his question, but that’s precisely what she did, though giggle might be a better description for the clearly-relieved bit of laughter than slipped out when he finished speaking.

      “And here I was thinking you had a hard question for me!  Yes, yes he could.  Maybe miss it isn’t perfectly correct, though.  He probably noticed you weren’t happy but thought it was because you were there and he was here.  Or he thought something different altogether.  It’s not always a good idea to assume that how you see something, even when it’s so bloody obvious a two-year-old would notice, is how he sees it or that he sees it, at all.  It sounds daft, I know, but you cannot imagine the number of times I’ve dealt with that very thing with him.  And his dad!  Even when you explain it… they don’t necessarily understand or agree, but Bertie learned that just because he doesn’t agree or think it’s important, doesn’t make it wrong or unimportant to me or… lesser than what he thinks.  Could Mycroft be that utterly oblivious?  Absolutely.  Don’t ever assume, dear.  You’ll be wrong too often for your liking.”

When you assume, you make an ass out of you and me.  Yeah, heard that one before.  Which is why I should have heeded the warning, but it’s hard to heed when your head is worrying about losing the man you love.  Or, rather, having him lose you…

      “Got it.”

      “Good.  Now, we have time for one more cup of tea, at least for me, you’ll have time for your first one, then I suspect Mycroft will have exhausted himself and be ready for a visitor.  Bertie is keeping Henry occupied, so that visitor will certainly be you.  Poor Henry… he’s another one I suspect could use some help with the little things that baffle Bertie and Mycroft, though he’s much better at them then they are.  When we haven’t heard any bangs or crashes for awhile, it’ll be your chance to talk.  Though… you _can_ leave before then.  Nothing to stop you and I can’t entirely say I’d blame you because it’s a lot to manage, loving a Holmes man, and you’re already so busy with a thousand things on your mind.  Hands pulling you this way and that.”

True.  All of that was absolutely true.  But, he couldn’t leave.  At least, not now.  Not before he had his chance to actually hear Mycroft’s story from Mycroft himself.

      “No, I’ll see this through.  I won’t predict what will happen or that I won’t be walking out the door for good when it’s done, but I can’t leave things the way they are.”

      “Good lad.  I wager your own brain would be a bit stuck if you didn’t get, what do they call it… closure!  That’s it.  Closure, one way or another.”

Closure… that sounded very final.  And that could be the right idea, when all was said and done.  But, he had some perspective now he didn’t have before.  Some history and insight.  Not just a nasty swirl of acid eating through his stomach and making him want… want to do and say things which were more to get a bit of revenge than be productive.  And he wanted to be productive.  Productive would help him make the right decision.  Productive would let him weigh the pros and cons.  Productive would enable him to draw out the truth from Mycroft, get the real story, and not send Mycroft, like Bertie, into a corner, terrified and overwhelmed from a furious finger pointing in his face.

Tea, some deep breaths, talking more with Dolly… then brave the lion’s den.  What was left of it, that is…


	56. Chapter 56

Greg refused to take a deep breath before entering Mycroft’s study because that was trite and cliched, something that would simply irritate him at a moment when the last thing on Earth he needed was to be irritated.  That he took a deep breath anyway before entering the study was a character failing he was going to ignore for the good of everyone involved.

Peeking into the now-quiet space, a situation which had taken a full half-hour to achieve and be judged a stable state, rather than the proverbial eye of the storm, he saw precisely what he knew he’d see and had dreaded with all his heart.  Mycroft’s study was destroyed.  And he knew destroyed when he saw it!  He’d been on enough film sets where the crew took great pains to stage a destroyed room, tending to every detail with their expected degree of professionalism, and this one exceeded their efforts by leaps and bounds.  That was likely because the set designers, props people and all the others who mucked in knew they had to take down and repack the majority of what they’d used while, in this situation, Mycroft had intentionally taken pains to make certain everything within his reach, and some he’d had to stand on a stool to reach, could never be used again.

Not a single personal thing remained untouched.  Not a book, desk item, wall decoration… things had been dragged out of the sideboard, cupboards beneath shelves, drawers of the desk, all to smash, tear, slash with a letter-opener or ornate pair of shears that Greg’s brain wondered if was the model for the shears used in the fourth Diogenes Bell book, _A Stitch in Time_.  Not even the furniture was spared.  Every cushion was cut open, heavy pieces were dented and scratched with their flourishes broken off… Mycroft had reduced this room to rubble and… and it still looked better than Mycroft did himself.

Not only did Greg have a great deal of experience with the appearance of destroyed rooms, he had a great deal of experience with the appearance of destroyed people.  Pain, sorrow, fury… you had to work hard to create the right appearance on screen to portray the depth of those emotions.  However, you had to make them _look_ _good_ , too.  They had to be photogenic, appear noble, draw the audience in to resonate with the feeling you were selling from the celluloid.  The real things, of course, were none of that.  They were ugly, embarrassing, repulsive… your face was streaked and blotched with shades of red.  Tears, sweat and spittle were on your face, in your hair, on your clothes.  Your expression in a film was still something that could go on a poster to slap on the front of a cinema to bring in the crowds.  It wasn’t the factual face of misery that made people walk quickly past the cinema and wait for next week to see what was booked before spending their hard-earned wages on a few hours of entertainment.

Mycroft was the _true_ picture of despair.  Of pain and anger and hatred and despondency.  Nothing that could ever be put in a film because it would make the audience uncomfortable in the wrong way because the illusion of film had been yanked away and they were staring at the ugliness of the real world that they were currently hoping to forget about.  The ugliness they paid good money to ignore and avoid so they could experience feelings, emotions, triumphs and failures in a clean and safe manner that might touch them, but in a way they could compartmentalize and keep away from their own fragile heart.  His poor Mycroft… didn’t look clean, didn’t look safe, but did look as fragile as a delicate china cup.  Suddenly, his own problems seemed limp and pale by comparison.

      “Mycroft?”

Stepping fully into the room, Greg wasn’t immediately certain if the lack of response was a good or bad thing.  He was going to lean towards bad, he decided, since ‘lack of response’ was complete, in this case.  Not even a flicker of awareness that anyone had entered the room, let along spoken his name.

      “It’s me, love.  You mum called and said it might good for us to talk.”

Still nothing.  Moving closer, so he was confident he was fully in Mycroft’s line of sight, didn’t do a single thing to change that, either.

      “Looks like we’ve got some shopping ahead of us to get your study back to muster.  The book shopping will be especially fun, though.  I’ve never book shopped with an internationally-acclaimed author, so it’ll be a completely different perspective for me.”

Greg ended his little speech with one of his most winning smiles, which died slowly on his lips since neither his words nor the brightness of his winning smile made the slightest dent in Mycroft’s cocoon of silence.  Opting to bring the conversation to Mycroft’s level, Greg moved towards the sofa on which Mycroft was curled on his side and sat on the floor in front of it, happy for a moment the heavy sofa table had been overturned so that he had sufficient room to sit with some degree of grace, which would not have been possible if he’d had to squirm his form into the small strip of clear ground between sofa and table.

      “Your mum told me what happened.  About the little chat you, she and your dad had and that… it wasn’t pleasant.  I’m sorry it pained you, I don’t like the idea of you being hurt, not at all, but… it was probably a conversation that should have happened, though between you and me and quite awhile ago.  Before it got to this point.  I had… I had some notions about things that your mum showed me were off the mark and, also, I suppose I was worried about hurting you.  Saying something in a way that wasn’t helpful, communication-wise.  Something you’d take differently than I meant it or in the way I _did_ mean it, but harsher or something.  I guess I was worried I’d make everything worse.  I’m here now, though!  Here and ready to talk.  I’d like to start with talking about you and what I can do to make you feel better because I know it’s been a fucking miserable night for you and… well, a person can’t really do important and productive talking when they’re feeling horrible.  So… can you tell me… ok, I have no idea where to begin.  Maybe, could you sit up and I’ll sit with you and that’ll make it seem more conversationy.”

Nothing.  Not even a tiny blink at conversationy.

      “Not ready to say anything, yet?  Ok, I understand that.  When you’re upset it can be hard to want to poke and prod places that already hurt.  That’s normal, really.  Maybe I should start.  I do some of my own stunts, so I’m used to poking and prodding things that hurt because I was that kid who picked at scabs and rubbed cuts and scrapes even when my mum threatened to make me wear boxing gloves so I’d stop being daft.”

Not even looking disgusted at scab picking?  This _really_ was bad…

      “I’ll tell you what’s not daft, though.  I love you, Mycroft.  I genuinely and with all my heart love you.  But… I’ve had to wonder, lately, if you still loved me.  I know we’re not a typical couple, what we do for a living makes ‘typical’ fairly impossible, I’d say, at least in some ways, but it’s been difficult lately with you… finding something far more interesting than me.  Maybe interesting isn’t the right word, though.  More immediate, maybe.  Been there often enough, myself.  Having work demands that I can’t shift, and the other elements of my life pay the price for it.  I suspect it’s new for you, though.  New, so you didn’t realize how it would feel on the other side of the line or recognize me trying to wave at you, figuratively, to get your attention.  I can see that.  Especially, you have problems noticing things like that and…”

Mycroft’s soft, keening wail was the worst sound Greg had ever heard and wished he had a knife on him to cut out his tongue and toss it out the broken window.  Why had he said that?  Why had he stepped directly into the shit pile that was the very reason Mycroft was a barely-functioning human right now?  Was it… was it intentional?  Was he trying to upset him?  Get that bit of petty revenge that had tasted sharp and hot in his mouth as he rode over here after talking to Dolly?  It didn’t feel right, but he was as far from a perfect person as a man could be and he wouldn’t even start to claim he was above that sort of pettiness.  He liked to think he was, tried not to be, but Greg Lestrade, film star and fairly typical human in real life, had no illusions that he was a saintly creature, immune from those typical-human bits of wickedness.

If he’d done that, however, and for those reasons, you think there’d be an astoundingly-shameful bit of satisfaction glowing in his chest, but there wasn’t.  There wasn’t anything there but a cold, thick, sludge that weighed him down with a sense of being an idiot.  He’d blundered into that shit pile accidentally and his reward was the nasty blade that plunged into his Mycroft’s brain to add to its already-scathing torment.  Fucking wonderful…

      “Shhhhh… no, love.  No.  That… that was a shit thing for me to say, but…”

Should he?  The cat was out of the bag and sharpening its evil claws on what remained of the sofa, so what more harm could it do?

      “… but it’s the truth and truth isn’t necessarily a bad thing.  Certainly not here!  Not a bad truth in the slightest, just one… just one we have to acknowledge and create strategies to make it not so much of a problem now and in the future.  Like your mum and dad have.  They’ve been married forever, and your dad has his own… difficulties.  So does you mum!  And me.  I’ve got loads of them.  Anderson’s been with me for centuries and I can still genuinely piss him off so much he won’t talk to me until he cools down.  Half the time, it’s the same things I’ve always done that I know I do and did them again, anyway.  So, don’t feel bad about that part.  We just need… we just need to talk about it all and how we both felt, what we thought and felt and expected, so we can understand it all a bit better and… decide how to go forward that’s smart.  Smart and helpful and in a direction we both want to go.”

Oh good.  A real response and it’s a headshake ‘no.’  What was that a no _to_ , though?  There were choices!  Might the silent shaker be goaded into speech?  It was worth a try.

      “Can you give me a little more than that, Mycroft?  I honestly don’t understand, and I don’t want to make assumptions that are wrong and unproductive.”

There.  That sounded like prime quality adulting, which was not one of his strengths, so all applause and awards were duly merited.

      “n…g…”

That wasn’t language!  That was… who the fuck knew, but it wasn’t language.

      “Didn’t quite catch that.  My ears might need a spot of cleaning out, so could you say it a little louder?”

Greg watched as Mycroft slowly cut his eyes towards him, the first action that gave Greg real confidence that Mycroft knew who he was talking to, but the cut his eyes away again after holding his gaze for the briefest of instants.

      “I… I will not go.”

Scrolling back through the transcript of his formerly one-sided conversation, Greg found the bit to which Mycroft’s words likely referred, but they still made as much sense as a parasol for a flounder.

      “Good!  Or not.  I’m not really sure, but we’re talking and that’s the important thing.  I’m assuming you’re referring to that bit about going in a direction and I want to be clear that I’m not saying what direction that will be.  That’s what we’re here to talk about.  Which way to go, how to get there, maybe predict some problems and come up with some pre-emptive solutions.  Maybe that last bit is too much for tonight, though.  Maybe we should just focus on the past and see what we can make of that before looking forward.  At least, not too far forward.  But, it’s always both of us.  Two heads and two opinions and two of whatever else we’re going to need.  So… how about let’s look back a little, what say?  You and me and what’s been going on while I was away.  I… um… I think that’s a good place to start.”

That was rubbish.  If his acting career collapsed, he certainly couldn’t seek another one in the counselor arena, because he’d just babble and confuse everyone, including himself, and not a single thing would ever be accomplished.  And Mycroft was now just staring blankly at his destroyed desk like a corpse staring at its own gravestone.

      “Want me to start?  Ok, that’s probably a good idea since…”

      “I will not go.”

      “Yeah, got that, so let’s explore what…”

      “There is no direction.”

That was from _The Matrix_!  No… a spoon.  It was about a spoon.  Bad brain!  No treats for you!

      “That’s… very surreal and even more… in need of exploring, so…”

      “With you.”

Brain got no thought on that because bad and no treats.

      “Exploring with me, you mean?  Yes!  Yes, that’s absolutely what I hope to…”

      “There is no with you.”

Anybody got a map?

      “You said just a moment ago…”

Some sympathetic cosmic spirit took pity on Greg and passed to him the map he requested, wishing that the route drawn upon it led anywhere but it’s intended conclusion.

      “… wait.  Are you saying we’re done?”

Mycroft’s eyes remained lifeless and fixed on his desk, though Greg wasn’t entirely certain the writer actually saw anything at the moment that wasn’t in his own head.

      “Mycroft, I really need you to talk to me right now because… I won’t lie, I’ve had that thought drift through my head once or twice, but…”

Watching his partner curl into ball and begin shaking as if he was preparing to detonate like a cartoon bomb frightened Greg to the center of his bones and he hated beyond hate that he had no idea what to do because he was swimming in an extra layer of fear that trying to physically comfort the man he loved would simply escalate Mycroft’s distress beyond any semblance of safety.

      “No, love… no… don’t be upset.  I mean… don’t be more upset than you already are.  I didn’t seriously consider it!  Just something that flitted through my head when I was feeling low and lonely, but I always, always, knew that what we needed to do was talk and… that didn’t seem to be possible with me being away and… you having your new book on your plate.  But we’re here now!  Here and with all the time in the world to chat.  Talk until the sun rises and beyond.  Doesn’t that sound nice?  We haven’t had time to talk for hours and… it’s amazing when we can.  It’s time I treasure and… oh, Mycroft…”

Said with great sadness to the man still shaking as if he was readying to fly apart and, this time, Greg couldn’t help himself but reach out and lay his hand on Mycroft’s shoulder, squeezing gently.

      “DO NOT TOUCH ME!”

Mycroft flew off the sofa like it had given him an electric shock and Greg stared wide-eyed at the man who was staring back at him with a terrified look on his blood-drained face.

      “I… I’m sorry, love, I’d hoped…”

      “You are NEVER to touch me!  NEVER!”

Now Mycroft _was_ pulling at his hair with vicious force, his body drawn in and contorted as if he was in terrible pain and this time Greg didn’t hesitate to act, grabbing Mycroft’s arms to prevent the writer doing himself further harm.  The piercing howl and violence of the fight Mycroft put up to being stopped, arms held fast, made Greg hope and pray there were reinforcements coming to help but when no sound of running feet and a thrown open study door manifested, he realized he was being left to cope on his own.

      “No, Mycroft!  No.  I’ll let you go, but you can’t hurt yourself.  You can’t.  You can yell and you can throw things and do everything you were doing before, but you _cannot_ hurt yourself.  It won’t help you and you’ll regret it later.”

      “RELEASE ME!”

      “I will if you promise not to hurt yourself.  You can do anything else but not that.”

Mycroft fought so frantically that Greg was barely able to hold his arms and thanked his lucky stars that he had more beef on his bones than the man he was facing, or he’d never stood a chance.  After what seemed like hours of battle, Mycroft suddenly sagged and would have collapsed to the floor if Greg hadn’t held firm his grip.

      “Ok… it’s ok, love.  Maybe… maybe you just had to get rid of that nasty bile and unhelpful energy.  That’s ok, nothing wrong with that.  I do it myself now and again when I’m frustrated or overwhelmed.  Let it all out by pounding on a guitar or kicking a football against the wall or dragging Anderson off to yell at him because I need to yell at _someone_ and the film crew doesn’t deserve me being a bastard just because the director’s a hack or it’s the eighth time a stunt failed because communication is shit for some reason.  It’s ok… I promise it’ll be ok…”

Greg affected what amounted to a gentle drag to get Mycroft back to the sofa, reaching it just in time for Mycroft’s breaking into harsh, heavy sobs.

      “There you go, get it all out.  Whatever it is, it’s better out than in, so take all the time you need and I’ll be here if… I’ll be here, no matter what.”

Another thing films always got wrong, the sound of crying.  Not the sniffling sort of crying, but the uninhibited, uncontrollable weeping.  It was _not_ a romantic sound.  Not a noble or cathartic sound.  It was messy and wet and thick with garbled tones and snot-bubbled breathing.  And it lasted a long time…

Mycroft was so unreachable and oblivious that Greg had opportunity to send a quick text to Dolly reporting out the status and received back a series of emojis that required the Rosetta Stone to decode. The fact there was a thumbs up in the list gave him hope, though, that the message was along the lines of he was doing fine and keep up the good work.  It didn’t feel that way, but if the emojis were blessing his performance, then he’d wear his laurels proudly.

As Greg’s concern was reaching the ‘maybe I need to get more help in here besides emojis’ stage, Mycroft’s weeping began to ease, slowly fading to the level where there’s naught left but soft huffing breaths and eyes that glisten with tears that never quite spill out onto the cheek.

      “Feel better?”

Mycroft shook his head, but in that distracted manner that didn’t really give Greg a clue as to what the head shake was indicating.

      “Want me to get you something?  Water, Fanta, tea…”

      “No.”

      “Ok, that’s fine.  How about a nice cool cloth for your face?  That’s a soothing thing when you’ve had an… energetic experience.”

      “No.”

      “That’s fine, too!  It’s all fine.  Everything’s fine.  Right?  Right.  Of course it is.  Yeah.”

Not that Mycroft seemed to really be hearing his babbling, but Greg decided to turn off the tap anyway.  What did you do in this situation?  If Mycroft was another person, he’d have a few tools in his toolkit to try, but the one he _had_ tried just made the situation stupefyingly worse, so the rest would stay safely nestled in their nice leather case waiting for another day to see the light.

      “Maybe it’s just best if you have a little rest and…”

      “Why are you here?”

Greg knew he probably looked daft with his mouth still open in preparation of speaking on another topic, but really didn’t know how to start this _new_ topic and things just got stuck, so he was a bit unclear how to either go forward or get unstuck.  Fortunately, it’s still possible clear one’s throat _while_ stuck and that provided the necessary resetting of the relevant thinking and speaking machinery back to factory specs.

      “I… Your mum called and asked me to come.”

      “Why?”

      “Because… you were having a bad turn and…”

      “Why did you _come_?”

Mycroft was a genius and geniuses were masters of thinking and things associated with thinking like talking.  Except when they weren’t.  Ordinary mortals, unfortunately, weren’t sufficiently geniusy to know the difference and Greg was feeling ever bit of his self-ascribed non-genius hitting him hard at the moment.  However, he was fairly good at reading faces and had gotten better at reading Mycroft’s than he’d been when they first met.  The look in his lover’s eyes seemed desperate to communicate something very important to him and he had to hope that his gut instincts about what that was matched what Mycroft had in his head.

      “Because I love you.”

      “Why?”

Shit.  He’d fallen deeper into hell!  He’d been right about what was in Mycroft’s head, but… boo!

      “Because the man you are is someone who connects with me like nobody else ever has.  Because there’s a feeling inside me that’s like a warm glow whenever I think about you.  Because you fill my days with wonder and joy and…”

      “I am vile.”

Ooh.  That’s not good.

      “No, that’s not…”

      “I am vile.  I abandoned you.  I am revolting.  Repellant.  Broken.  Wrong.  Defective.  Unworthy…”

Mycroft’s hands began rising as if to grab his hair again, but Greg put his arm out and blocked the motion before Mycroft’s hands could move as far up as his chest.

      “None of that.  If you need to _do_ something, beat the shit out of that sofa cushion or pound on my leg.  I’ll help you toss the desk over or wrestle the sideboard through the window, if that’s what it takes, but… I’d rather you just talked to me.”

Mycroft shook his head slowly and looked off into the distance as if starting both into the past and the future simultaneously, not liking what he saw in either direction.

      “Leave.”

      “Nope.”

      “I… I am… I cannot function in this, Gregory.  I am incapable of… what is necessary.  I thought I could be…

      “What, love?  What did you think you could be?”

      “Normal.  But I am not.  I am not and never shall I be.  I failed you, Gregory.  I failed you so horribly…”

The receding tears raced back to spill down Mycroft’s cheeks and Greg bit his lip to keep from reaching out to embrace his partner and absorb some of his lover’s pain.  It was a terrific risk, but he slowly slid his pinkie under Mycroft’s hand to take at least one tiny piece of the writer in what embrace he felt safe giving.

      “I won’t touch the ‘normal’ bit, Mycroft, because I honestly don’t know what normal is and who it’s supposed to describe but I’m fairly certain it’s not me or most of the people I know, so that’s a debate for another time with charts and stats and the sorts of things you and your dad are good at.  But… I admit I thought you knew what you were doing.  That you’d decided your new bit of fun was more interesting than me, more _important_ than me and just hadn’t remembered to tell me that you’d decided we’d run our course.  I didn’t think you could go weeks and not particularly notice that I was being cut out of the script, but your mum said it was _very_ possible and I should never ever assume anything because I’ll likely be wrong.  Your brain got stuck, didn’t it?  Got stuck in a track that it couldn’t get out of without being helped out and that help didn’t come.”

Mycroft’s head dipped and, this time, Greg let the writer’s hands rise, so they could cradle his face as he sat silently and rocked slightly back and forth.

      “Do you love me, Mycroft?  Will you answer that for me?”

Curling so his arms wrapped around his head, elbows the only thing between his face and thighs, was not the reaction Greg was hoping to get, but it also wasn’t the answer he hoping he _wouldn’t_ get, either.

      “I came here tonight to help you, love, but right now, you could answer my question and help me.  It would really, really help me to know, from your own lips, if you love me or not.  I won’t get mad, either way, or be rude or anything, so just be honest, but… could you help me, Mycroft?  Could you do this one thing that would genuinely help _me_?” 

There were tiny sounds emitting from the bundle of limbs and head that sat on Mycroft’s lab, but no amount of checking his pockets would reward him with the necessary decoder ring to crack this cipher, so Greg realized he needed a fresh approach.

      “I have an idea, why don’t we…”

      “Urmnyhrnt.”

Fucking decoder ring!  Why aren’t you real!

      “I… I absolutely know that what you just said was extremely important and brutally hard to say, but could you say it just once more?  I couldn’t understand you and I desperately want to.  I want to hear _everything_ you have to say.”

Greg could only cross his fingers that Mycroft was willing to accommodate him because his fresh approach had grown mold and sagged into a very disappointing semi-solid mass of once-fresh promise.  After several long moments he was preparing to find a book and a drink to pass the time until Mycroft felt ready to talk and was slightly startled when the human origami began to unfurl, and turned it’s red, dispirited face in his direction.

      “You… you are my heart, Gregory.  You are the breath in my body and the light in my soul.”

      “Oh, love… I’m so glad to hear that.  I feel exactly the same way and…”

      “That is why I can no longer be involved with you.”

What?

      “What?”

Greg watched Mycroft’s face carefully, only now realizing that it was a bearded face, and put that particular observation aside while he studied the expression, which was shifting quickly into something that worried Greg more than despondency – bleak resignation.

      “You are my love, Gregory Lestrade, one I… one for which I am not worthy.  I tried, Gregory, I tried so very, very hard to show you even an inkling of the devotion, adoration and regard I feel for you but… it was a fallacy.  Not the emotions, but my belief that I could be for you the man you deserved.  That I could rise above my wretchedness, my… dysfunction… and walk with you through the remainder of my life, a life made indescribably joyful by your presence.  But… I could not.  I _cannot_.  As I failed, I shall continue to fail.  I… I cannot fix who I am.  There is no medication or magic wand that can free me from my defectiveness.  You deserve more than a broken doll, Gregory.  You deserve so, so much more.”

      “No… no, Mycroft, wait…”

      “There shall, of course, be no issue with your role in the film.  I believe, wholly and completely, that you are the only one to properly give my character life.  I… I will not, however, take any further actions to guide the film and its presentation.  I trust that you will see the matter handled appropriately and, of course, I feel certain you will liaise with Anthea regularly, for she knows, second only to me, what I would desire to see in the finished product.”

      “Mycroft, really, just slow down and let’s talk about this.  I know you’re upset and…”

      “I feel most fatigued.  I suspect a small nap is in order before I contemplate the remainder of my night.  It is a pity to let useful time lie wasted and I should make the most of what I can.”

Rising unsteadily to his feet, Mycroft smiled a dazed and brittle smile at Greg, before making a pointless attempt to straighten his clothing and making a slow and extremely controlled walk to the door, leaving behind the wreckage of his study and the dreams he’d had of the man still sitting amongst the rubble.

In Mycroft’s wake, Greg heard the flurry of conversation through the open study door and vaguely recognized it was missing a certain voice of response, no matter how firm, perplexed or worried were the other voices in the discussion.  As they faded, it didn’t surprise Greg in the slightest that the owners of those voices migrated in his direction, though they didn’t seem as eager to speak as they’d been before.  Well, he’d best get the party started…

      “Oh, hello Dolly.  And Bertie.  Fancy seeing you here.”

      “Greg… oh, my dear Greg, what happened?”

      “Nothing much.  Mycroft said goodbye and toddled off for a nap.  There was a lot of… emotion… before that, but it’s the ending that matters, right, not how you got there.”

Dolly nearly leapt from the doorframe to the sofa and took Greg in a shoulder-crushing hug that the actor barely felt.

      “He’s still… he’s still working through this, you wonderful man.  Don’t worry about anything.  He’ll give his head a twist and it’ll fit back on his shoulders properly, just you wait and see.”

It was a lovely thought, but Greg had seen the dead, empty place where Mycroft’s beautiful eyes had been and knew the reality was anything but lovely.

      “Yeah, maybe so.  Time heals all wounds, isn’t that what they say?  Well, I’ll make a start on that time, what say?  A beer or two, some crap telly and a long night’s sleep.  Just the ticket for a tired old dog like me.”

Greg gently disentangled himself from Dolly’s death grip and gave her a kiss on her forehead before standing up and nodding at Bertie.

      “Look after him for me, will you, sir?  I… I think he’s going to need some support for awhile.”

The gears were whirring in Bertie’s mind, but without concrete data he had little for them to work on to fix this problem.  Instead, he made an ‘after you’ motion, which Greg accepted as his chance to leave with his own private escort to the exit.  He’d hoped for a silent walk, but once the universe’s whipping boy, always the universe’s whipping boy…

      “Gregory…”

      “Yes, sir?”

      “Do not… do not give up on him.  Do not give up on my son.  He wants that, I suspect, to protect you however… please.  Please, do not give up on my son.  I do not ask that you do anything, say anything or take any action whatsoever.  I simply ask that you… do not give up on him.  Leave open a way for him to reach out again when the fear, the pain and the self-loathing subside.”

The fracture he’d seen in his Mycroft’s very core didn’t fill Greg with confidence that an army of masons could repair the foundation well enough to put the light back into his love’s eyes.

      “And if they don’t?”

      “Then he is lost, and it matters not what you do, does it?”

Greg’s eyes widened slightly, then settled into a deep, mournful gaze with the man who was clearly preparing for his beloved son to suffer far, far worse than a man being set adrift to find someone else to love and build a rewarding life.

      “I’ll leave a way open, Mr. Holmes.  And I’ll trust that you’ll tell me if and when I should shut the door.”

Bertie continued to lock Greg’s eyes for a moment then nodded.

      “I accept your terms and will honor them.”

With a smile as weak as his soul felt, Greg bid his farewell to someone he’d hoped he could get to know far better in time, and walked with heavy step towards Horse.  The strange thing was he’d expected the evening to end like this.  Expected to be walking away with no strings attached to his pert arse and facing a tomorrow where he’d get on with his life, get busy preparing for his next role and be able to gain for himself anything in this world he might ever want.

No… not quite.  He couldn’t have anything he might ever want, but _nearly_ anything was well within reach and that was far, far more than most people could hope to achieve, so he’d call it a victory, regardless.  And nobody, not even himself, was going to take that away from him…


	57. Chapter 57

      “Balls, Greg… I’m sorry.  I really am.  Did you get _any_ sleep at all last night?”

Greg had almost let his mobile go unanswered when it rang, but decided that the one person he shouldn’t ignore was the man keeping him viable in the film industry, especially if Mycroft changed his mind about him playing Diogenes Bell.  Not that he thought that would happen, but his record for correctly predicting Mycroft’s mind lately was pitiful and it paid to play things safe.

      “Not much, I’ll admit.  In some ways, this is worse than a clean break, because… I just don’t know what’s going to happen.  I’m in limbo, waiting to find out if I get to continue the drop straight into hell.  Waiting is always worse than something actually happening.  Except for getting shot or another lethal option like that, but you know what I mean.”

      “Yeah, I do.  I still can’t believe it, though. You and Mycroft… if you’d have asked me if you two stood a chance of making this work, I’d have punched you in the mouth for even doubting things once I saw how oddly, yet successfully, you two fit together but… but, I don’t know for buts.  What are you going to do?”

      “Nothing.  Let Mycroft work through this in his own way and don’t put pressure on him that would likely make things worse.  He doesn’t need more stress or sources of agitation.  It’s not as if he’s all alone in this, either.  He’s got his family and staff, who’ll make certain he’s alright and has an ear to listen when he wants one.”

      “True, but… you don’t want him to think you don’t care, do you?”

One of the reasons, in a nutshell, Greg _had_ been awake all night.

      “No, but I honestly don’t know how to strike a balance.  How to let him know I’m still here and ready when he’s feeling better about things, but not seem pushy or add to his troubles by adding to his guilt level.  I have _no_ idea how to do that.  I suppose I’ll have to check in with someone to get a feel for what’s what.  All I know for certain is that Bertie… he’ll tell me when to stop and move on.  He promised that, and I don’t doubt he’ll keep that promise no matter how much he may not want to.”

      “What a shite job.  I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes.”

      “Nor me.  Let’s hope he never has to deliver the news.”

      “Yeah…”

      “So, why’d you phone, anyway?”

      “Oh… nothing that can’t wait.”

      “What?  It’s not as if I have anything else to do and the distraction might keep my mind off things.”

      “Really, it’s not high priority.  I just put in a few calls to some old bastards we know from your theatre days and they have some ideas to toss around about getting you ready to actually act again.  Whenever you’re ready, we can do lunch and start some balls rolling.”

      “That’s… good.  That’s genuinely good for me to hear today.  Moving forward, not wallowing about feeling sorry for myself.  No commitments, just getting ideas I can work with… when did you want to set this up?”

      “Whenever you’d like.  If you really want to take your mind off things, I have zero doubt I can arrange something for today.  Low-key, catching up with one another, giving them an idea of what you’re hoping to achieve… like you said, no committing to anything, just putting an outline on the table so everybody’s on the same page.”

      “At your favorite place for pasta?”

      “I am absolutely fine with that food choice.”

      “Ok… work it out and let me know when to be there.”

      “I’ll get on it.  But, only if you’re sure.”

      “I’m sure.  Seeing some old faces, talking about old times, and new potential ones… yeah, I think that’s a thing for today.”

      “Then fuck off so I can get to work.”

      “Fucking off commences!  Eat shit, Anderson.”

      “Suck balls, Greg.”

Tossing his mobile next to him on the small sofa, Greg shook his head and returned to the chair in which he’d been sitting and picked up his guitar to begin strumming one of the slow, intricate songs he’d been practicing since the sun had risen.  Before the sun rose, he’d been thrashing like a young punk, doing exactly what he’d told Mycroft he sometimes did to get nasty energy out of his system.  Every time he stopped playing, evil thoughts floated back into his head and he’d start again, wilder and louder than before.

Today was going to be good, though.  Talking with people who knew acting and, fortunately, that a young Greg Lestrade had the skills for the craft once upon a time.  No pressures, just a nice afternoon with old acquaintances.  The perfect thing to stop his head spinning and get him pointed in the right direction again.  Leave the Mycroft situation alone for a few days, then phone… or have Anderson phone Anthea to see where things stood.  Then maybe he’d make a call to Dolly to get her impression of things.

Not today, though.  Today was all about him, selfish at that seemed.  Honestly, he needed a little selfishness right now.  It was a crap thing to think, but he needed one single day where his thoughts weren’t chaotic and worried and uncertain… just one day where all he had to worry about was having a nice time to concentrate on his own work and how to pull it up another notch on the ladder.  It would be restful, in a way, and one thing he sorely needed now was rest…

__________

Oh yes, that was just what the doctor ordered.  Anderson, that beautiful man, had actually gathered people he not only liked, but respected and remembered very, very fondly, so the working lunch went on for hours, then segued into drinks with word sent out to _other_ old faces so a wealth of ancient connections was resurrected and with more to talk about than banal pleasantries.  He’d always loved discussing acting and all that surrounded it.  Not budget and overseas figures and CGI and the rest of the universe of the film business, but the true art of bringing characters to life and constructing a performance that was meaningful to the audience.  Lifting the words off the script and weaving them into a tapestry in which the audience lost itself for a few hours.

However, now that he was feeling good and positive and breathing free, the duck of his day was getting a solid fucking.  Who was knocking on his door?  Seriously, who?  It was… well, it wasn’t actually that late, but the only person who would be knocking on his door at this point was still hard at work setting up things for this old, yet firm, arse to participate in some workshops and get some one-on-one coaching to better step into his new role.  If this was a new person at some magazine who was tricked into thinking they had an interview with him, which had happened more than a few times because magazine staff can be just as immature and prank-prone as any other collection of human beings, he’d make certain that stupid publication didn’t get anything on him for a fucking year.  Time for the angry door fling and angrier voice combination…

      “Who are you and… oh.  Henry.  What the hell?  I mean… that.  Pretty much that.  The hell and whatnot.”

Suddenly, the poor new magazine hire was looking like a much better option for an unexpected arrival.

      “Hi, Greg. I… I wanted to talk to you, if you had the time.  It seemed… maybe the air was in need of a little clearing?”

No.  Smog, fog, smoke and stink were all preferable than clear air right now.  Ahhh… filling the lungs with pollution… what a bracing thing.

      “Uhh…”

      “I brought scotch.”

      “Oh.”

      “Good stuff.”

Henry didn’t usually drink scotch and wouldn’t know the good stuff if it fell on him.  Which meant he had to ask some spirits vendor and hope they didn’t take advantage of him because he had one of those faces that said you could sell him a bottle of scotch, pair of shoes or mattress for an insanely expensive price and he’d hand over his card trusting he was being fairly dealt with.  Which had _not_ been the case more than a time or two.  Time to ease down the irritation and credit the man with effort.

      “Ok _,_ yeah, sure.  Scotch or not, come in.  Sorry about that, I just wasn’t expecting anybody.”

Greg moved aside and let Knight step into the house, noting that, for another point scored, Henry appeared as nervous and awkward as the moment felt.

      “I’ll get the glasses, what say, and you get that lovely thing opened and ready for work.”

It took a moment for Henry to take a breath and set himself in motion because he’d half expected Greg to slam the door in his face and, honestly, was more than half hoping that he _would_ since that would handily avoid the possibility of this conversation which had him as anxious and unnerved as if he was having to give a talk to the Pulitzer committee.  In the nude.  And he’d left his prepared speech in his trousers pocket.  Which he’d left at home.  Hence the nudity.  At least Greg seemed to find his peace offering acceptable…

      “Oh, that _is_ the good stuff, isn’t it?  Well, nobody ever said you drank crap booze.”

      “I don’t think anyone has ever commented, at all, about what I drink.”

Thank you, Henry, for sounding exactly like Mycroft right now, which is precisely what was not needed.

      “Then here’s to me being the first!  Have a seat.  I was going to warm the sofa tonight, so we might as well continue with the regularly scheduled programming.”

Hoping his good-host voice was as welcoming and positive as his mother would expect and chide him over if he failed, which she’d find reason to claim no matter what, so it was a shit-poor example and he should probably stop trying to be Mr. Happy Host and just get down to business.

      “So, Henry Knight, man of mystery and suspense, what brings you out here tonight?”

The long sip of scotch didn’t do as much to bolster Knight’s confidence as he’d hoped, but it burned a bit on the way down, which reminded him that he was a living, breathing human who Greg hadn’t punched into _not_ living and breathing yet, so he should probably relax and stop bracing for impact.

      “I wanted to say I was sorry.  I had no idea, none at all, about you and Mycroft and if I had, I never would have come with him to dinner.  Or come with him to London, at all, since… it should have been time for you and him to reconnect and… oh, it all went to fuck, didn’t it?”

That wasn’t exactly the erudite apology Henry had rehearsed, but it covered the relevant points.  On Greg’s part, said relevant points served to draw down his irritation even further and feel a great deal more amenable to talking to one of the last people he really wanted to talk to on his selfish, all-about-me day.

      “Thanks.  I genuinely do appreciate that, and I know I acted like a bastard, so I’ll apologize for that, on my part.  I was angry with Mycroft and I shouldn’t have taken any of it out on you.”

      “For what it’s worth, he honestly _was_ clueless about the whole business.  It wasn’t intentional or willful or trying to send a message.  It wasn’t even… I don’t know how to say it, but he wasn’t clueless in a _bad_ way.  The sort of way when you don’t care about someone, take them for granted or are just a self-centered prick.  If that makes any sense.”

      “It does.  I talked to Dolly and she actually explained it so I understood, even when I wasn’t really in a frame of mind to _want_ to understand, shameful as that is to say.  It didn’t seem possible he could miss something so obvious, but… he could!  That, and a lot more.”

      “How long have you two… and I’m not asking as an interviewer, none of this is going into the piece I’m writing because it clearly falls out of bounds for Mycroft’s and my agreement… and human decency… but can I ask how long you two have been together?”

It said a lot about how Greg viewed Henry that he never even imagined his relationship with Mycroft making it into the article. The man had standards and a solid ethical code that set him head and shoulders above a lot of the ‘professionals’ scrabbling for gossip about celebrities to boost their byline.

      “Not that long, really.  I only met him after he’d agreed to the film being made.  Sometimes, though, you don’t have to know someone long to know… well, to know.”

      “To know…?”

Greg laughed under his breath and saw clearly why Henry would connect with Mycroft.  It was like Bertie and his friend Theodore!

      “To know they’re the one for you.  The one you love.”

And, now, Theodore 2.0 was staring at him with the look of a confused man running the situation through a hundred making-sense calculations and getting nothing but error messages and unexpected shutdowns of his CPU.

      “Really?  I mean, yes, sometimes it doesn’t take long… from what I’ve heard, but… I’m, ummm… when you say love, are we having a theoretical discussion or…”

      “Did you see me on Graham Norton?”

Greg waited while Henry’s face moved through puzzlement to thoughtfulness to grabbing the right end of the stick.

      “SHIT!  You said it on television.  The ‘L’ word.  People sitting comfortably, watching a spot of telly and there you are confessing your love right into their homes.  I… dear lord, you did that.  Did you know you did that?”

      “Yes.  The words came out of my actual mouth, so I was aware they were vocalized on BBC One to the entire viewing audience.”

      “But nobody knew you vocalized!  I didn’t, at least.  Nor did anyone else or even _I_ would have heard about it and I’m usually last to the party for who is shagging who since I don’t find that sort of thing very interesting.  Not the part shagging, I mean.  That part interests me, on a personal level, but not the who with who bit.  Being in love, though… that’s a different matter.  That sort of thing fascinates me because it says so much about a person.  It can have a profound impact on their point of view for their work, inspire their muse… and you just confessed it all right there in my sitting room.  I feel dumb.”

      “Don’t feel too bad, because I knew nobody would interpret what I said correctly except a few key people, like Mycroft himself.  And his parents.  Oh, and my mater and pater who gave me an earful about sharing family business with the world, which is something only the vulgar do, especially when they haven’t officially _made_ it family business yet by sharing said news with the family in question.  That’s why all of this… why the crash was as messy as it was.  We love each other, truly and deeply, and when things went awry…”

      “Yeah, I know.  I saw the aftermath.  That was as properly destroyed a room as I’ve ever seen, and I’ve interviewed my fair share of coked-up rock stars.  It makes a bit more sense now, though.  Mycroft’s parents filled in a few of the blanks, but I think… well, nattering on about their son’s great love who happens to be one of the top film stars in the country isn’t something you do to someone who’s writing a piece for publication about said son.  I got the you two were ‘together’ story, but nothing veered into the Graham Norton zone.”

      “We never really talked about when to make things public.  It’s not an easy question to answer and both Dolly and Bertie know how much Mycroft values his privacy.  Imagine the press hysteria that would erupt… the poor man would probably move to the North Pole just to be away from paparazzi.  And I’m not sure that would even be enough anymore.  Fucking drones.  Dropping packages one minute then invading your life the next.  I love that video of an eagle or something showing one who was boss of the skies.  Made a big donation to one of those raptor rehabilitation charities just in case the poor thing hurt a leg or wing or something while taking that fucking drone down.”

      “I understand completely.  I’ve known Mycroft long enough to realize how destroyed he’d be by the publicity and intrusion into his cozy, quiet life.  Your career might not weather it well, either.  Or it might.  Hard to say, really.”

      “That part’s never far from my mind, but not at the forefront of it either.  I’ve dated men and it’s not a secret that it’s happened, but nobody with Mycroft’s acclaim and that would certainly make it a prime news item.  People know my sexuality, but it’s never juicy or explosive enough to make a great splash in the tabloids.”

      “You’re boring.”

      “Basically!  The only times that part of my life has been fuel for the gossip mill is when I’ve been with someone like Janine.”

      “Who _isn’t_ boring.”

      “Precisely.  Mycroft’s not boring, though, not at all.  Some people might think so if they met him, but they’d be idiots.  The scandal rags, though, would definitely find him interesting, unfortunately.  Famous, but reclusive, author involved with me?  The clicks, views and numbers of papers sold would dwarf the size of my headache while all of that nonsense was going on.  But… none of that might be a concern anymore.  There’s a bright spot to look forward to!”

Henry was practiced enough in reading tones and undertones in a person’s voice that Greg’s attempt to hide his melancholy was an utter failure.

      “True… but I suspect you’d rather have both the headache _and_ Mycroft in your life than a lack of both.”

      “Fucker.  But, you’re right.  Not my call, though!  Not at all.  So… how’s the book going?”

      “You really want to talk about that right now?”

      “I do, actually.  I know what he thinks, but I really don’t know much about your point of view.  At least, your honest point of view without him being right there listening so you might not be completely honest for fear of hurting his feelings.”

      “Ok, then.  You know I’ve been wanting to do something besides my usual stock in trade and this is going better than I ever imagined.  How many first-time writers, so to speak, are being mentored by someone of Mycroft’s caliber?  And I can have confidence that whatever he says is honest, because… well, he’d never stop to think about being anything but perfectly truthful with his criticism.  He gives me the straight story and… it’s helped.  He sees things in my writing and knows what to do to improve them.  We’ve had our arguments, when it’s a matter of subjective opinion, about a style choice or something like that, but… the results are amazing.  Even Wiggins, the prat, has made a few off-the-record comments to me about seeing his game upped.  Not only the inspiration of the Mycroft’s house and grounds, but our dear writer will comment on some test shots and they’ll prompt him to rethink and do another round.  Which _are_ better for what he’s trying to achieve.  It’s been a strange work-triangle, but it’s producing some excellent work.  Oh god, I can see you choking on the triangle part.  I’m sorry.  It’s the only three-sided regular geometric solid, so my options were limited.”

      “I’m not choking!  Much.  For your information, I’m perfectly fine with Mycroft having his own friends and career, so there.”

      “That’s a line from a bad romcom script.”

      “It is.  I don’t think it was one of mine, but it could have been.  I can’t remember.  I’m old and sad.  And alone.”

Greg would continue to try and joke his way through his hurt and, maybe, that wasn’t the worst way to handle things right now, in Henry’s opinion.  If the choice was that or mope about, he’d probably do much the same.  Along those lines…

      “Want to fake being near death?  That would probably have Mycroft running to your bedside to shower you with heartfelt promises that if you live, he’ll return to your loving arms so you two can spend a blissful eternity together.”

      “Only a writer would suggest that.”

      “Well, do you?”

      “Not now.  That’s Plan B.”

      “I thought you didn’t even have a Plan A.”

      “I do!”

      “Doing nothing is not a plan.  It’s the absence of a plan.  A non-plan.  A… pla.”

      “I’m proud of my pla, thank you very much.  Took me loads of brainpower to come up with it.”

Henry wasn’t, by any measure, an expert at relationships, but he knew this one had some unique points that was going to make it difficult to bring the two lovebirds back together.  Actually, it had _one_ unique point and that was the man who left for home today despite his parents doing their best to convince him to stay in London a little longer because, to their mind, the closer he was to Greg the more he might be reminded of him, think about him, and start to feel the pull in his direction.  Back at home, he was insulated from those little reminders and little good could come from that. 

      “That’s pitiful.  But… I _will_ talk to him, Greg.  Maybe if he has a fairly neutral party to talk to…”

      “No.  Leave him alone to think and work through things on his own.”

      “I don’t think he will, though.  He’ll shove all his feelings into a small room and hammer large boards over the door, so it can never be opened again.”

      “I don’t believe that.  At least, not in the long term.  It’ll be the fucking Tell Tale Heart.  He’ll hear it beating and beating and will finally have to open that door up to face that heart full on.”

      “You realize I’m going to say that only a writer would suggest that, don’t you?”

      “Old and sad!  I can’t even be original when I’m trying to be clever.  Seriously, though… don’t bother him about this.  I actually do have more than a pla right now and it’s to keep an eye on things through various sources and get a sense from the people around him about how to proceed.  Right now, it’s good to give us both a little time.  Then, we’ll see.”

      “Who’s keeping an eye on you?”

      “The Ghost of Christmas Past.”

      “I’m being serious, you idiot.”

      “The Ghost of Christmas Future.”

      “I.D.I.O.T.  Don’t… don’t do what Mycroft’s going to do, alright?  Talk to people, work through what you’re feeling and let them offer support.  It’s not the manly man thing to do, perhaps, but it’s not healthy to bottle up everything, especially things this important and impactful.  The least of the problems is that if Mycroft does decide to peek out from behind the hedges, you don’t want to be so bitter and hurt that you find you couldn’t care less.”

      “That won’t happen.”

      “Not if you take care of yourself it won’t, no.  I know your parents aren’t the most comforting type, but they’ll, at least, distract you from this particular well of agony.  Talk to your friends, be kind to yourself, that sort of thing.  I’ll be a spy on your roster, too, so don’t hesitate to phone and chat.”

      “You want to do a new piece on me, don’t you, you opportunistic elf.”

      “I’m not short.”

      “Don’t berate my lack of cleverness in crafting insults..”

      “I’ll try.  And, yes, I do, but only when I’m finished with the one I’m polishing to perfection on Mycroft, so you’ve got time to utilize my spy abilities without the worry about conflicts of interest.  Besides, if Mycroft’s mum is one of your spy squad, she’ll spend more time trying to pry information of you than remembering to give you information on him, so I’m in good company.”

      “That’s true.  Shit… I forgot I have a few things for her and Bertie from Morocco.  Didn’t remember to bring them with me last night.”

      “I wonder why.  You’ll be seeing them again soon, Greg.  Mycroft… Mycroft left London today, but his parents are staying for another day or two, mostly to supervise the repair of his study and to talk to Mycroft’s brother about the situation.  I suspect that if you ask to see them before they leave, they’ll leap at the chance.”

He’d known that news of Mycroft leaving would probably be a blow upon a bruise, but Greg would find out soon enough anyway, so Henry decided it might as well be him who broke the news while there was a bottle of scotch on hand to smooth things a bit.

      “M… Mycroft already left?”

      “That he did.  I don’t think he slept at all, actually.  When I went looking for a spot of breakfast this moring, he was issuing orders for getting underway.”

      “And you didn’t go back with him.”

      “No.  The plan wasn’t for me to do that anyway, so I wouldn’t read anything into it.  I’ll be visiting him next weekend, though, so I’ll have word for you then, if you haven’t pried anything out of his staff.  They’re… they’re as unhappy as you might imagine about all of this, so you have a set of allies on premises if you need them.  But, this is why I’m worried him about just shutting off his emotions and memories and the like, Greg.  It wasn’t a perfect mask he was wearing today, but you could see Mycroft was trying to behave as normally as possible, and it wasn’t taking too much effort to do it.”

      “ _I’d_ say he was trying to maintain as much dignity as he could while he raced away as fast as possible to hide because he couldn’t keep up the act very long.”

      “Ok, fair counterpoint.  Just don’t be so certain about that that your ridiculous pla buys you nothing but a lonely heart the rest of your life.”

Why couldn’t Henry be stupid?  Or not care about this useless actor’s pathetic life?  Of course he was worried his pla was shit!  Yes, he was scared that Mycroft would be in too much pain to confront it and do his best to just lock it all away to forget about it, and him, as best he could.  That between the desire to forget and the conviction that he couldn’t function in their relationship, the hope Mycroft would reach out to try again was a dismally-misguided one.  He was going to cling to it for now, though, because Bertie, the person who probably had the best insight into Mycroft’s mind of any of them, told him to.  Maybe it was a father’s love, a father’s own hope for his son, but… it was enough to give _his_ fragile hope some life support.  If Bertie said time’s up, then that would be the signal that truly, all was lost.  Until then, though… going with the pla like a pla-ing professional…

      “I’m not and I won’t.  Just… it’s only been a day, for pity’s sake!  Not even a full day, at that.”

      “That should tell you how eager everyone is to see this work out.”

      “You are already planning our biographies, aren’t you?”

      “No.  Yes.  But that’s for when you’re actually old, sad and living the quiet life with jumpers, a few cats and constant complaints about your prostate.”

      “What a lovely picture you paint.”

      “What’s wrong with it?  Probably toddling about Mycroft’s Addams Family mansion, sharing reading specs and if you ask nicely, he’ll likely massage your prostate to encourage it to let you sleep and not get up to piss twelve times a night.”

      “That’s nice.  That makes me _want_ to be old.”

      “Then be smart and you have a wonderful future ahead of you.  More scotch?”

      “Yes.  Then we can talk more about Mycroft massaging me in naughty places.”

      “I will _not_ write an erotic novel featuring a film star and mystery writer that happen to resemble you and a certain someone who, for the purposes of the smut, will be named Mancroft.”

      “I’ll pay you.”

      “No.  But, out of curiosity, how much is it worth to you?”

      “Have a few more scotches, then we’ll talk.”

      “Oh no, no contract negotiations when you’re drunk.  First rule of the writing business.”

      “What’s the second rule?”

      “Don’t write books with a character named Mancroft.”

      “Shit.”

      “Don’t write books about shit is Rule Number Three.”

__________

Yes… yes, a thousand times yes.  The hours, the days, the years… spent here in this hallowed home, where naught of the darkness and ill-fortune of London can lay a single sullying finger…

      “There you are!”

      “Sherlock!  What… why are you here?  How are you here?  I left London but a few…”

      “Mummy informed me when you were leaving.  It is not difficult to find a London cab driver willing to traverse the distance between my flat and this mausoleum at greater than the posted speed, and by a large margin, if one is willing to meet his stated price.”

      “That… somehow, I paid for your cab ride, did I not?”

      “I have your bank card so why would I bother to use mine?”

      “Naturally.  Now, whereas your visits are always things to deaden the heart, I would appreciate it if…”

      “Here.  Drink this.”

Sherlock held out a small stoppered vial that Mycroft would not have taken from his hand if it was labeled The Elixir of Eternal Life.

      “No.”

      “Yes.  It will simulate the effects of imminent death when you consume it.”

      “Wha… why on Earth would I do such a thing?”

      “So Lestrade will race to your side and declare his eternal devotion.”

      “Are you mad?”

      “No.  It is a standard literary device to recapture a wayward lover, so you should appreciate the fact I acknowledged your ludicrous profession in my plan.”

      “Sherlock… Gregory is _not_ wayward.”

      “Not once you have succumbed to this and are at death’s door.  I expect my solicitousness will serve as your birthday, Christmas and National Cake Day gifts until the heat death of the universe.”

      “Heaven help me…”

      “I doubt any residents of heaven could concoct this particular formulation, but I am happy to put that to the test.”


	58. Chapter 58

      “Yes.”

      “No.”

      “You will.”

      “I will not.”

      “Do it.”

      “I refuse.”

      “It is for your own good.”

      “Poisoning me is not for my own good!”

Mycroft shoved the offending vial back to the other side of his desk in Round 3 x 101000 of refusing to drink Sherlock’s evil potion so he could slip into the land of living death, much like the ridiculous heroine of Shakespeare’s most insipid tragedy.

      “It is if brings your easily-fooled lover back to you!”

Sherlock shoved the vial back again and, this time, Mycroft snatched it, quickly walked to the window, threw it open then threw the vial even harder so it landed in a bush.

      “Any creature that investigates the carnage you have wrought will surely be murdered by the toxic effects owing to their low body mass, so enjoy being branded a craven animal killer for the remainder of your days.”

Mycroft now paused and began to look out of the window, dread rising up on his features to the point not even Sherlock could take satisfaction from it.

      “The vial will not have shattered from that pathetic throw and you can have one of your menials collect it later.  Now, if you will not follow through with my extremely effective plan, we must craft something else.  I cannot think of another human who would not vomit if they had to associate romantically with you, but we may be able to hire someone to swallow their digestive bolus and _pretend_ to be your new paramour.  Lestrade, being a Neanderthal, will rage with jealousy and race to recapture you from their villainous hands.  Do you know anyone… no, you do not know a single person besides family and fictional characters, neither of which will agree to be your romantic partner.  I shall phone Anthea and set her upon the task.”

Mycroft’s features quickly shifted from dread to a set more typical for his interactions with his brother, though these were tinged with a bit more exasperation than the norm.

      “Sherlock… I am heartened that you are trying to… help… however, the situation between Gregory and myself is…”

      “Idiotic and someone must step in to see matters resolved.  Since you and Lestrade are both idiots, hence the aforementioned idiotic designation, the burden falls upon me to take action, something I do not appreciate and for which I will exact a steep price.  I require a liquid scintillation counter for an experiment, so we may begin there.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose with not nearly enough force to stem the tide of his rising headache, Mycroft sighed and tried to think of a way to distract his brother from this topic of conversation or, failing that, murder him like a victim in his novels.  One who richly deserved their agonized fate and was mourned only by that single, elderly relative inserted into the narrative to demonstrate that the blackguard was not entirely villainous for he sent said relative flowers on their birthday and included a thoughtful card.

      “For what purpose do you need this apparatus?  Do you have a catalog or website for me to examine?”

      “Ah ha!  I knew it!”

Was that a success?  Or failure?  Perhaps drinking the poison was a better option, after all…

      “Pardon?”

      “You are trying to distract me, but you are transparent as material that has too large an energy gap for electron excitement by visible-wavelength photons.”

      “Have you been speaking with Father?”

      “No.  Yes… we were debating the relative importance of certain factors affecting the visibility of materials and…”

      “He won.”

      “He cheated.”

      “Knowing more than you on a subject is not cheating.”

      “I disagree.”

      “Of course.  In any case…”

      “A ha!  You are trying, again, to distract me!  Your foul tactics will not work, Mycroft.  Now, focus on the task at hand, as opposed to fleeing from it, so we can rectify this extremely ill-considered action on your part and I can begin preparing for my liquid scintillation counter to arrive.  I may have to barter the attic room from Mrs. Turner, but she is normally amenable to bartering, as long as sufficient cash is involved, so I shall expect a suitable sum from you as additional payment for rescuing your romance from the scrap heap.”

Why his brother picked now to take an interest in his life, Mycroft had no idea, but it was along Sherlock’s standard pattern to choose the worst possible time imaginable to do or say something flamboyant.

      “My romance does not require rescuing, because it does not exist.  One cannot rescue a vacuum.”

      “It does exist, because it is clear you still love Lestrade and there is no doubt in my mind that he continues to love you.  Your assertion is already proven false.”

      “It is not a romance if it is not acknowledged as one, and I will not do so.  I love Gregory, that is true, but I cannot demonstrate that love in a worthwhile and consistent manner, so… he deserves more.  Gregory deserves better than the meagerness of my actualized regard and I am content that he is now free to find someone better suited to the task of treating him properly.”

      “Your arrogance is astounding.”

      “Arrogance?”

      “First, you believe you know better than Lestrade about what he desires.  Second, you are so wedded to your self-perception that you refuse to admit it can be altered by debate or evidence.  Ego!  You are allowing your bloated ego to dictate your actions and destroy the one thing in your life that actually merits my approval.”

The blatant statement of support for his now-deceased relationship startled Mycroft, but not enough to for him to ignore the words that came before it.

      “It is not ego, Sherlock.  Not arrogance, hubris or any further synonymous scenarios.  Devotion, rather.  Love.  A want, an undeniable want, for Gregory to have what he deserves in his life.  I am who I am, brother, and that is a person you know well.  I knew that, also, but believed… hoped… that who I am would either be fit for purpose or I would be able to monitor myself with sufficient assiduousness that I could… make corrections before my nature became problematic.  I have learned that neither was possible, and one does not repeat mistakes simply because… it is over, Sherlock.  That is something you must accept, as have I.”

His brother failed to answer, but the look on Sherlock’s face said that accepting things as they were was not an option he would pursue.

      “Now, as you are here and, I hope, without a cab waiting in the drive, shall you be remaining overnight or returning to London today?”

      “I was wrong.”

      “About?”

      “It is not ego.  It is cowardice.”

Oh dear lord…

      “Fine!  If it pleases you, I shall claim cowardice, as it acts to bolster my own position that I am unsuitable for Gregory.”

      “You are many things, Mycroft, few good, but you have never demonstrated this degree of sheer, naked cowardice.  It is… troubling.”

      “Sherlock, you must…”

      “I am unsuitable for John.”

_ This _ measure of startle dwarfed his previous one and Mycroft found he could do nothing but stare dumbfounded at his brother.

      “By all measures, I am unsuitable for John, and I… there are times I am _highly_ certain he believes that, as well.  And I do not realize the seriousness of the situation until after it has caused offense or harm.  Yet, we remain together.  John recognizes that I have flaws, that they might be refined with time, but will never vanish completely.  That I do try, I see where I have erred and commit to improving, yet fail as often, or more often, than I succeed.  I, also, am who I am, and that person is not likely one John deserves.  Certainly, I am not a person who deserves John, but… we remain a ‘we.’  It is not always easy, and I feel sure John has to accept far more than do I, but… we endure.  Your arguments, therefore, might work on an uninformed third-party, but not with me.  Not with Mummy, either, who has… good lord, she has had to live with Father for most of her life.  You have clear models of success and… yes, I believe I have returned to arrogance… you believe yourself somehow an entirely different case.  You are wrong.  Ego and cowardice are propelling you to failure and you could stop the progression at any point.”

Mycroft looked so shaky on his legs that Sherlock prepared himself to catch him before he toppled to the ground.

      “You… you are a _very_ good match for John, brother.  Never believe otherwise.”

      “Pfft.  That is simply the corrupted perspective of your infuriating elder-brother doting, rather than objective analysis by your logical mind.  Unlike you, I am correctly assessing the situation and my role in it.  No, let me rephrase.  Unlike you, I am recognizing that my views and opinions are not the only ones of importance.  John’s are vital, as well, and, though I would concede that he could find someone less… challenging… than me, that is not his choice.  I love John and choose to be with him.  He loves me and chooses to be with me.  One day… perhaps one of those situations will no longer be true but, until then, we remain together.  You are refusing to acknowledge Lestrade’s feelings and beliefs, imposing your own as the final authority on your relationship.”

Staring at his brother, Mycroft no longer looked in danger of wobbling to the ground, but Sherlock remained on alert for other organic problems, such as a stroke or emotional surge that rendered this room to rubble as had been the fate of his library in London.  Mummy had sent a photo.  He had seen bomb-destroyed spaces that appeared more intact.

      “Sherlock… I love him.  But, I do not know _how_ to love him.  Not in a manner equal to his worth.  What would you have me do?”

      “Mummy suggested you did not permit Lestrade time to state clearly his views or debate with you the topic of your unsuitability.  That is the first thing you should rectify.  No… again, let me rephrase. That is the second item on your agenda.  The _first_ is to offer apology, not for being an odious twat, but for allowing your self-absorption to create that failure.   Though, I suppose, apologizing for being an odious twat would accomplish the same goal, so it is neither here nor there.”

      “It will happen again, Sherlock.  I will disappoint him a second time.  And a third and a fourth…”

      “From my observations, that is the standard circumstance for any relationship.  Disappointment, anger, frustration… it really is a miracle that any romantic association lasts more than a fortnight, however, they do and if you, again, are going to become an egotistical hysteric and proclaim your incomparable and unparalleled level of wretchedness, I can assure you that my reaction will be similar to that when you decided to recite John of Gaunt’s speech from _Richard II_ to our neighbor’s Basset Hound.

      “You set my hair on fire!”

      “Nothing else was stopping you and I have a basic human right to protect my life and well-being, no matter the nature of the threat.”

Mycroft scowled at the memory, while he hesitantly touched his hair for reassurance that it was not currently ablaze, but found himself unable to shake one point his brother had made.  Ego.  He had believed himself protecting his Gregory from a terrible fate, that of loving someone as twisted and broken as was he, but… seen from another standpoint, it _was_ ego.  Arrogance that he knew best and ego that his flaws and faults were insurmountable, more scathing and injurious than any other person might boast.  In truth, to him, that made him even more inappropriate for a man like Gregory, but continuing on that mental path would become a self-perpetuating feedback loop that would likely do far more harm than good.  It certainly, for example, would not make Sherlock happy and it would not take his brother more than sixty seconds to find matches and once again become an arsonist.

      “Simply as a point of discussion… what would suggest I do?”

      “I have no idea.  Must I do everything for you?”

      “You created this monster and, now, expect me to vanquish it?”

      “The monster was created the moment the doctor dragged your featherheaded self out of Mummy.  In the spirit of family, however, I might be persuaded to assist.”

      “My accounts are not bottomless, brother.”

      “I accept credit.”

      “Joyful.”

__________

      “You look miserable.”

      “I _am_ miserable.”

Anderson had been watching his friend keep to his normally-high level of professionalism while he prepared for his new role, but it was as if a switch flipped when he wasn’t working and out popped a very different person wearing Greg’s skin.  It had been nearly three weeks since The Incident and, while there hadn’t been a message from Bertie to chuck it all and move on, which Anderson imagined would arrive via special messenger and scribed with quill pen on a piece of parchment, because Bertie would want to give the message the sense of importance it deserved, there also hadn’t been any encouraging news, either.  He’d heard that Sherlock had sped out of London upon hearing word of his brother’s relationship exploding, but he’d come back the next day with a shrug of his shoulders and informed his family that he thought he’d made some progress but, ultimately, it was up to Mycroft now.  And, apparently, leaving things up to Mycroft meant even Sherlock’s lackluster optimism had been too optimistic for the situation.  Dolly had phoned her son several times and he patently refused even to discuss his and Greg’s relationship, leaving the poor woman distraught and it was kind of Anthea to have her up to London a few times for some shopping and drinks to put some sparkle back into her soul.  He’d joined them once and, frankly, an unsparkly Dolly was one of the saddest sights he’d ever seen.

      “Anything I can do to make you less miserable?”

      “How good are you at love spells or mind control?”

      “Balls with both, actually, but I also suspect you’d stop me if I did have those powers because you’d chew off your own leg before bewitching Mycroft to do something against his will.”

Greg’s loud sigh preceded a hard hair-ruffling/head-scratching session that helped sweep away the creeping pettiness from his brain.

      “True.  I’d just hoped… things are moving along, you know?  With the film, I mean.  I was looking forward to him being a part of that.  Giving him little bits of confidence that things were going to be brilliant, even battling with him over trying to leap into the middle of things and squatting like a toad on a stump that resisted anyone trying to pry him from his toadly throne.”

      “Anthea is keeping him abreast of things.”

      “Anthea isn’t me.”

      “And aren’t I thankful for that.  She’ll actually eat sushi with me.”

      “Sushi is disgusting.”

      “You’re disgusting.”

      “I definitely will be tonight after I’ve had the enormous Caribbean takeaway feast I have planned for myself and all those lovely hot peppers and spices pay their respects to my intestines.”

      “Lovely.  Tell me you’ll do that after you finish with the nice people who are going to help you not make Diogenes Bell seem like an uncultured, uneducated berk.”

      “You mean not seem like me.”

      “Basically.”

      “I love you, Anderpander.  In the same way I love smashing my elbow against a door or when the tingle-wingles are torturing me when my foot’s been asleep, then decides it doesn’t want to be.  For your information, I’m meeting Randall at his studio at four and the other chap at home after that.  Then, it’s tasty dinner and as many chapters as I can manage of that book I got yesterday.  They need me at eight tomorrow morning, right?”

      “That’s the last I heard.  I’ll check again, though, to make certain nothing’s changed.  I’ve got a meeting with the publisher in the morning, so I won’t be at the studio until at least ten, I suspect.  First, I’m looking over the final contract to use your ugly face for any cover work or publicity, then it’s the graphic novel division to start negotiations for using your still-ugly face if they decide to follow through with doing a title to accompany the novel’s reissue.”

      “I’m not sure if I want to see how they’d comic-book me, to be honest.  They’ll probably do that dark, edgy, angular thing that makes nobody look good but a black triangle.”

      “How about that big-eyed manga look?  I can probably strong-arm them into that.  Big eyes, short skirts and enormous breasts.”

      “That’s only the manga _you_ read.”

      “Don’t forget the tentacle porn.”

      “I had.  Thank you for helping me unforget.”

      “You’re welcome.  Now, I don’t think we’ll be long with wardrobe today, they just want to measure your fat head for hats and check a few looks for shoes, then we can hit that shop you like for old albums before I foist you off on your dialect coach.”

      “So I can learn to talk posh.”

      “Your mum will like that.  Maybe. Or she’ll chide you for putting on airs.”

      “It’ll be the latter.  And dad will lecture me about taking pride in where I came from, so it’ll be faking another phone call or robbery or rain of fire to dislodge me from that particular pit of hell.”

      “That sounds nice.”

Greg made a rude noise, but credited his agent with lightening his mood a bit.  He tried to keep the doom and gloom away from other people, but it crept out now and again, despite his best efforts.  Since the person he spent the most time with was Anderson, he’d gotten more than his fair share.  Time to do something to show his appreciation for taking the impact without flinching.  There were probably a few days in the foreseeable future where he could send his friend on a small holiday to do some battery recharging of his own.  Rest, relax with no worries about anything but his own fun without any bills arriving later in the month to spoil the afterglow.

Because, and this was pathetically selfish, having freshly-recharged batteries would probably be necessary for Anderson to survive the moping and moaning _he’d_ likely soon be doing in earnest.  Sometimes you had that feeling… it hadn’t been a month and, yes, couples did have periods like that and came back from them fine, but…nah.  He had that feeling, that sinking, sinking feeling that every day was another ten leagues of distance between them and, by now… he wasn’t likely even a speck on the distant horizon.  Lucky for him, Diogenes Bell wasn’t a jolly fellow.  This nonstop, simmering ache would be great inspiration to draw on to craft the brooding detective.  There.  A silver lining.  Always look for those, because they _are_ there, even if you pretty much have to lie to yourself to find them…

__________

      “Anything else, Mr. Lestrade?”

      “No, but thank you.  See you tomorrow?”

      “Very likely, sir.  I’ll confirm the pickup time and whether Mr. Anderson wants to meet you here or be collected at his residence.”

      “Sounds good.  You have a good night, then.”

Greg smiled at the driver, who smiled in return, and decided he’d put in a good word for this chap with the transportation people.  Too often, all the drivers got were complaints, of which about 0.0001% were warranted, so he always tried to see something positive added to their files.  It probably made zero difference in their wage or anything, but… it was what he’d want someone to do for him and that was one of the basic philosophies that had steered him throughout his life.

Another of those basic philosophies was to work hard.  Today was a delightful example of that, for instance.  Going from one thing to another, with only one stop to browse for some vinyl and to have a quick lunch, and he wasn’t done yet.  This was going to alright though.  Now and again he worked with a music instructor for his guitar skills, so working with one for other skills wasn’t hard.  The studio always had a few people on hand for survival training on some instrument or other when a talentless actor had to pretend to know what they were doing, and he’d never worked with one who wasn’t great at their job and a decent person, as a bonus.

One lesson tonight and, probably, four or five more, since there were a few scenes in the book that could make it into the final cut of the film where he genuinely needed to show something besides fumble-fingered piano playing.  There’d even been a piano delivered a few days ago for him to work with and, frankly, he’d been terrified to even touch the beautiful thing.  A grand piano, like Diogenes Bell had in his house, large and gleaming and he’d felt dirty and wrong even looking at it because it should only be gazed upon by true pianists and he really shouldn’t even be trusted with something you’d give a toddler that made plinky-plonky sounds when they hit the keys.

Someone wasn’t a quivering mass of unworthy fear, though.  Anderson or, far more likely, one of the studio assistants had let the fellow in to get used to things and get warmed up for work.  He’d said he wasn’t sure exactly when he’d be home, but he’d make it as close to seven as possible and hated to leave a body standing and waiting when he was stuck in London traffic.  The last time that happened it had been raining and the trainer that had been brought in to give him lessons with broadswords had stood outside getting wet until one of his neighbors had phoned the police because they thought he was considering robbing the house.  Well, he’d send the poor studio person acting as property minder home and do his best to shine as a music student.  Then on with his plan of being a normal, single man with access to takeaway menus, a phone, telly and beer.  It was going to be glorious…

Shaking himself into music mode as he entered his house, Greg paused a moment and whistled softly at what he was hearing.  He’d made a point of listening to all the mentioned-by-name pieces Diogenes Bell played in the book and they were beautiful, but certainly not easy.  What he was hearing was remarkable, meaning the chap they’d brought in was highly talented which, now that he thought about it, would be necessary even to teach him to muddle through those particular pieces of classical music.  He loved working with talented people.  They knew their stuff and were usually thrilled to talk about it, so you could learn a lot, not just about what you doing then and there, but about their profession, as a whole.

Grabbing a quick Coke out of his refrigerator, Greg made certain there was another to offer his guest, then strode towards his music room where he was suddenly glad he hadn’t popped the Coke can since it fell from his fingers and was immediately forgotten.

      “M… Mycroft?”

The small nod he received confirmed, to Greg, that it either was Mycroft playing piano or his hallucination was humoring him because that’s what hallucinations did so you didn’t immediately catch on to their wicked ways.  Very slowly walking forward, Greg decided not to reach out and touch his possible hallucination because that would be a very bad thing, possibly, if this _was_ Mycroft.  Instead, he looked as closely as he could at the person pouring his soul into his music, specifically to make note of all the tiny details he knew about his dear Holmes but suspected his feeble brain would be too lazy to put into a hallucination, even if it was having a cruel laugh at his expense.

      “Love, is that really you?”

      “Yes.”

      “And… you’re here?”

      “Sherlock circumvented your security.”

      “Yeah, he does that.  Are we… can we talk?”

      “I am not finished with this piece.”

Yep, that was Mycroft.  No doubt about it now.  And… that was absolutely, perfectly, completely alright with him.

      “I’ll sit over here and listen, then.”

      “That is acceptable.”

Taking a seat on the small sofa, Greg knew he couldn’t smother the grin on his face for love nor money, so he didn’t bother to try.  His Mycroft was here.  He wouldn’t be here to say goodbye, so… no, no getting misty-eyed.  Being misty-eyed and grinning was the sort of thing that happened in dreadful romcoms and he’d had enough of those in his life.  But…maybe one more was ok, since there was nobody else here to see him and the person he’d be co-starring with would probably appreciate that sort of thing once the music was done…


	59. Chapter 59

In some ways, Greg wanted Mycroft simply to keep playing because it was so, so rare he was able to appreciate someone this accomplished with their instrument, but he knew that when the music finally ended, asking for another piece would be cowardly.  Mycroft wasn’t there to entertain him, he was there to talk, something which this sad actor had hoped for but lost faith in happening.  Now…

      “That was beautiful, love.  You’re incredibly talented.”

      ‘Yes, though I have enhanced that through practice.”

      “Very wise.  Diamonds don’t suffer from a bit of polishing, right?”

      “A suitable analogy, yes.”

      “Good.  Ummm… can I get you something?”

      “Such as?”

      “Food, drink, hat…”

      “I do not wear hats.”

      “How about the first two?”

      “I would not refuse a glass of wine.”

      “Wine… ok.  That sounds good to me, too.  Want me to bring it in here or would you prefer somewhere else.”

      “Here is fine.”

He almost missed it, but there was a tiny cut of Mycroft’s eyes, which hadn’t precisely met his yet, back to the piano like he was trying reassure himself it hadn’t vanished.  If that enormous bugger was giving his Mycroft some comfort right now, then they’d be drinking wine in here and that was the final word on the subject.  Mycroft could speak in longer, more complex sentences, he was a champion at that, in point of fact, and fell into the pattern of shorter, more concise ones when he needed a bit of a wall between himself and the world.  Relaxed, happy Mycroft was easy to recognize and this wasn’t him.  Good to know he wasn’t the only one here worried off his arse…

      “Then I’ll be back in second.”

Racing off to grab what he hoped would be an acceptable vintage and samples of every wine glass he owned, along with a big tray to carry it all, Greg then walked carefully back to his music room and set down the tray on a table near the sofa.

      “Your preference for stemware, sir?”

It was clear Mycroft hesitated rising from the piano bench, but the possibility of receiving an ill-chosen wine glass was too terrible to bear and finally he moved to inspect the selection and make his selection.

      “This one.”

      “A stellar decision, good sir.  Would you… would you care to join me on the sofa?”

      “I…”

      “Or retake your seat at the piano.  In case you get the urge to regale me with another piece of brilliance.”

      “Yes, that is better.”

Mycroft hurried back to the piano, tapping the top three times before sitting again and taking a sip of his wine.

      “This is very good.”

      “Thanks!  I don’t know much about wines, but Anderson does, and he keeps me stocked with things that even my barbarian’s palate can tell are exceptional.”

It was on him, Greg knew, to get the ball rolling on this conversation.  It had probably taken everything Mycroft had just to come here, let alone play the piano, which was something deeply personal and revealing, so expecting him to take another step was cruel.  So… ball, meet hill.  Start rolling.

      “And I want to thank you for coming here tonight.  Just having the chance to listen to you play deserves thanks, on its own, but… I suspect you’re also here to talk about us and I want to thank you for that, too.  It’s not an easy thing for _anyone_ to do, but here you are, and I’m very grateful for your courage.”

      “I… oh.  Yes, it… it was not easy.”

      “Is there something I can do to make you more comfortable about things?”

The fact Mycroft thought a long time about that question could mean good or bad things and Greg was not about to predict which one it ultimately would be.

      “Could you… promise to…”

      “Anything, love.”

      “Be honest.”

      “About?”

      “Everything.”

      “Yes, I can promise that.  Even if I don’t want to, because I think it might hurt your feelings or make me look horrible, I’ll be honest.”

      “Good.  I require data and corrupted data will not allow for proper analysis of the situation.”

I see your mouth moving, Mycroft, but I hear your dad’s voice speaking.  My thanks to you, too, Bertie…

      “That’s very wise.  I promise to give you all the honesty you want, and you can ask me anything you feel you need to for your analysis.”

      “I have a list of questions.”

      “That’s very forward-thinking of you.”

      “Yes, it is.”

      “Want to start?”

      “Oh… yes, I suppose that is an efficient use of time.  Very well…”

Mycroft moved to set down his wine, looked pained, and Greg rushed to find a coaster to set down first, which made the writer exceedingly happy.  Next followed the pulling of a large piece of paper from Mycroft’s pocket, which Greg hoped wasn’t filled with small-script questions that would not only take all night. or week, to answer but, very probably, distract them from the job at hand.

      “I believe I shall start with number four.”

      “Not number one?”

      “No… no, not now.”

So, number one was a hard one.  Or one Mycroft didn’t want to ask.  Or hear the answer to.

      “Four, it is, then!  Fire away.”

And, of course, clear your throat to make the moment more dramatic.

      “Number four – What percentage of time, each year, are you not available due to work concerns?”

That’s was an easy one.  Too much.  Better not say that, though.  Even with the honesty factor.

      “It depends.  Some years, the percentage is low.  All the work is done here in London or not far away because what professionals do with set design and construction or CGI can be extremely effective in making people believe we’re in South America or something like that.  Other years, it’s a higher percentage.  We may shoot the entire film overseas and some films… they drag on for an eternity, it seems.  I’ve never had a year where it’s one-hundred percent of my time away or zero percent, either.”

      “That… is not very specific.”

      “You’re right.  Ummmm… some years, maybe 10% or less I’m away.  Other years, it might jump to over 60%.  But, with that, I get a few breaks and I can’t remember a time where I didn’t have access to my phone or computer.  There are always tools available to communicate, even if I’m not physically present.”

      ‘I see.”

      “A good see or bad see?”

      “See is not a quantity that can be evaluated in that manner.”

      “Ok.  Next question or more information on this one?”

      “Question Five will provide clarification.”

      “On to that one, then.”

      “What means of communication _are_ available to you when you are working, how reliable are these methods and how apt are you to use them unprompted?”

      “Let me think… I’ve got access to phone and computer easily along with whatever this’s and that’s they bring, like texting and skyping.  I’ve never had to use it, but I suppose if I had to there’s a fax machine in most places.  And mail.  Sometimes it’s nice to send a real piece of mail.  All of those are pretty reliable.  I’ve never filmed in a situation where we were so remote that there was no way to communicate except sending a mail donkey to the nearest town for a boat ride to a larger town where there was some form of postal official to see it managed.  And I’m very apt to use them!  I do forget, that’s for certain.  Get busy and it’s work eighteen hours a day with scarcely a moment for a quick bite to eat, but… I know when they’re happening and if I fail to send a quick text or something or have Anderson remind me to do that, then it’s my fault for being a bastard.  I do my best _not_ to forget, though.”

Why are you screwing up your face, Mycroft?

      “Something wrong?”

      “I… I was very apt to forget.”

Ball rolling at breakneck speed!  Steer it into the weeds to slow it down a bit!

      “Yes, that’s true.  But, in your defense, you also have never been in this sort of a situation before.”

      “I also forget to phone Mummy and Father.”

      “Everybody does that.  I’m not sure it’s even forgetting; it’s more like talking to your parents is wonderful and aggravating at the same time and it’s just not something you leap to do when you have a free moment.  I don’t phone mine terribly regularly, either.”

      “But, I forgot _you_ , Gregory.”

The sheer pain in Mycroft’s voice made Greg want to leap up and  take the writer in his arms, but there were too many reasons for that to be a bad idea, so on the sofa he stayed, keeping his face and voice as neutral as he could.

      “Did you, though?  Did you actually forget or just put something else higher in priority for awhile?”

      “Both are despicable.”

      “Maybe, but I’d rather the latter, especially in this situation where I know you might do a bit of reprioritizing, not just of me, but of anyone at that moment in time.  It’s not an _extra_ slight or anything like that.  I didn’t enjoy it, but I do think it’s something that, now you know it’s possible, you could set up something so it didn’t happen again.  A reminder system of some sort.  That’s the sort of thing you and your dad are brilliant at planning, so I have no doubt you’d think of something that would work and work well.  The truly despicable thing would be not doing things differently or taking no steps to try and prevent it happening again in the future.”

      “I am capable of thinking of that on my own.”

      “I know and I’m sorry if I sounded condescending but…”

      “No, that was not my meaning.  It was… I failed in that, also.  I know who I am, Gregory.  I know better than anyone and I could easily have predicted that I would do something such as this.  In a matrix of possibilities, this would have a high probability of occurring, yet I did not act to prevent it.”

      “To me, you’re basing your analysis on a flawed premise.  You think you could have anticipated all of this, but I’m not so sure.  Until you actually experience something, it’s very hard to make predictions or know what you would or wouldn’t do.  It’s terribly difficult to actually know what you’d do in a situation until you’re there in it.  And, since you asked for honesty, I do think it’d be harder for you than it would for other people.  That’s not a bad thing, not by any means, it just means it would be easier for you to miss something that someone else might think was obvious.  What we learn from all this is to do some planning ahead of time, as best we can, for what might happen in new situations and I need to be better, a lot better, at waving a sign in your face early on if something is going off the track.  And you should do that to me when I’m flying off the track, too.”

      “You should not have to wave signs, Gregory.”

      “Uh, yeah.  I should.  All couples have to do that sort of thing, it’s not strange or uncommon, at all.  It’s very easy to live in your own perceptions and forget that others aren’t seeing matters the way you are.  Ultimately, nothing that happened between us is, of itself, out of the ordinary.  It’s a question of degree and I could have probably nipped things early if I hadn’t been lost in my own thoughts and ideas.  I was thinking about what was going on in only one way and passing judgement based on that that limited perspective.  And I was wrong!  Completely wrong in my thinking, but it made the situation worsen simply because I _didn’t_ wave a sign, share what I was thinking and ask what was going on in your head to compare.”

      “You are _not_ at fault here.”

      “Not fully, no.  But it would be wrong to deny me what share I do own.  We can’t fix things, can’t plan to do better if we’re not looking at both sides of the coin.  You have your part to do and I have mine.  Again, just like for any problem a couple might have.”

Mycroft’s uncertain expression wasn’t what Greg wanted to see, mostly because he wasn’t sure what Mycroft was uncertain about.  Maybe time to move on a bit.

      “Another question on the list?”

It took a moment for Mycroft to respond, but he finally nodded, and Greg waited another long moment while his writer stared at his paper.

      “It… it is a paraphrasing of Question 1, but… do we remain a couple?”

No wonder Mycroft didn’t want to start with that one.  A ‘no’ on that and the rest of his list was pointless.  Luckily, it was an easy one to answer.

      “I believe we are, but I don’t know how you feel about it.”

      “I behaved abominably.”

      “You messed up, yes.  That doesn’t, in and of itself, mean we’re through.  I would ask, though… I haven’t heard from you in a long time.  And, since we’re being honest, I was giving up hope that I’d ever hear from you again.  Were you thinking about your first list question?  Trying to decide if that’s something you wanted?”

      “Yes.”

      “Ok, so…”

      “And, no.”

      “Alright… let me see if I can predict.  Yes, you were trying to decide if we were still a couple but, no, you weren’t trying to decide if it was something you wanted.”

      “That is correct.”

      “Good!”

      “It is?”

      “Yes, because it means you still want to be with me, just aren’t sure if that’s where we are or something we can achieve.”

      “Sherlock called me a coward.”

Ooh.  Baby brother pulling no punches.

      “Why?”

      “Because I did not wish to confront you on the issue.”

      “That’s harsh.”

      “He also said I was arrogant because I was imposing my views on a matter that affected us both.”

Pulling no punches and adding in a few kicks for good measure.

      “That’s also harsh.”

      “Do you agree with him?”

      “Uh… I honestly never thought in those terms, so it’s hard to agree or disagree.  I _did_ think that we needed to talk so we both could express how we were feeling and what we were thinking.  Explain our motivations and actions, or lack thereof.  I didn’t think about that in terms of arrogance, though.  Certainly not cowardice.  What do you think about those terms?”

      “They are not… ill-applied.”

      “Ok… see!  That’s why communicating is good.  We get to share opinions and start to understand things better.  It helps me see things from your side, which is important and I’m sorry, Mycroft.  I’m very, very sorry you felt that way.”

Mycroft simply nodded and Greg decided that remaining silent was a smart move at the moment.  There seemed to be something burbling in Mycroft’s brain and it was probably best to let it come to a boil on its own.  Which happened slowly, but the bubbles did, finally, begin to rise and pop at the surface.

      “I also found…”

      “Yeah?”

      “I conducted an experiment.”

      “Ok.  On what?”

      “On the status and quality of my life without you as a part of it.”

      “Oh.  That’s… interesting.”

In a way that is far more worrying, actually, than interesting, but that part can stay secret for now.

      “It was.”

      “Want to tell me why?”

      “I realized that my life had not changed.  It could and _would_ go on as before without you.”

That didn’t sound good… worrying quickly eliminating all traces of interesting in the room.

      “Ummm… yes, you would.  I would, too.  Ending a relationship isn’t death.  Your old life just doesn’t end, and you’ve got nothing there to take its place.  It’s a different situation if there are kids involved or there’s something you do jointly, like run a business, but sometimes you’re right.  There’s _no_ physical difference in your life, except you don’t do the things you used to do with that person.”

      “That was true, I found.  My work was not disturbed, beyond the first several days.  It was… not an easy thing, per se, but an _accomplishable_ thing to return to my standard routine with very little to no loss of efficiency.”

      “I… it was the same for me.  Got back to work and did my job as I always did.  There are people who don’t fare that well, who have a very difficult time pulling themselves back into their normal life after they exit a relationship, but that’s not the majority.”

      “It was somewhat revelatory.”

      “In a positive or negative way?”

      “Positive, I feel.”

But, what does positive mean, Mycroft?  Not that it’s your fault I’m confused, because I’m the one who asked the useless question that wouldn’t provide a very informative answer not matter how brilliant was the person doing the answering, but… brain not work good now me big dumb oaf.

      “Can you tell me what ‘positive’ means to you here?”

      “It means… I… I should disclose that I asked… paid… my brother to… spy on you during this time to ascertain how your life was impacted by our parting.  I also tasked Anthea to wrest from Mr. Anderson information from his point of view.”

      “That’s… very Cold War of you.”

But so fucking _you_ that I can’t muster any surprise about it whatsoever.

      “Perhaps.  But it provided me with data and it was that data that has led to… positive.”

      “Which means?”

      “You endure.”

That didn’t help!

      “Come again?”

      “I hurt you, Gregory.  I was scandalously neglectful, not by intent, but that is not relevant.  I treated you abhorrently and… you endured.  You suffered, true, but you did not suffer in ways that objectively compromised your life in a negative manner.  Your work did not suffer, you interacted with friends and colleagues, you indulged in your favored recreational pursuits… you were sad, there was a heaviness of heart, but I felt certain that would pass.  In the interim, however, you were not affected in a manner that would cause you lasting harm or difficulty.  And, this result stemmed from the _summative_ effect of my conduct and our separation.  If we remove the separation factor from the equation, the severity of the situation would be further lessened.  Our current conversation offers the additional insight that if an apology had been offered, which I do offer wholeheartedly and unreservedly, and the proper communicative steps to rectify the situation had been taken, then… the impact upon you would be unfortunate, but lacking anything near its present degree of significance.  My nature is… singular… and there will surely be any number of egregious missteps in the future, however… well, there we have it.”

Mycroft was now smiling, and Greg quickly applied what translators he’d developed to process Mycroft’s speech.

      “So, and correct me if I’m wrong, you’re saying you’ve realized that, yes, you did something regrettable and, yes, you realize that it’s probably not an isolated event, but it didn’t devastate my life the way you expected so you’re more confident that we can succeed even with incidents popping up here and there as time goes by?”

      “Yes.”

      “I… I’d definitely say that’s positive.”

      “I would, as well.  I am not belittling my actions, Gregory, do not think that for a moment, but…”

      “You don’t have the worry now that if you mess up it’ll be the end of my world.”

      “Precisely.  I was so fearful, my dear, so, so fearful…”

And now you’re not.  And speaking in longer, better, Mycroftian sentences.  Very positive, indeed…

      “… for I _did_ hurt you and it is not something I shall ever forget.  For the hurt I caused, I _will_ do whatever is necessary to make amends and take whatever steps are warranted to try to avoid such in the future.  I… I do not feel, though, that I can do it alone.”

A statement was likely as costly to his love than any of those he’d already uttered.

      “Then aren’t you lucky to have me, since I’m absolutely willing to help with that.  And you’ll help me, too, right?  It’s going to be me sometimes being the forgetful or neglectful one, Mycroft.  Or I’ll say or do something that will upset you, make you feel uncomfortable.  Like you, it won’t be intentional, but it _will_ happen.  You’ll help me see what’s going on, why it’s wrong, and tell me what will help to fix it?”

Oh, Mycroft… there’s that beautiful glow in your eyes that lights up the room more warmly than any candle.  I’ve been waiting so long to see it again…

      “I shall.  I most certainly shall.  It is only right and proper that I extend to you the same supports you extend to me.”

      “Then, back to the first question on the list.  Are we a couple, Mycroft Holmes?”

      “I… I have concluded that our bond is still intact, though there may remain some threads to be woven back into the tapestry, but they are relatively few and most amenable to a needle wielded by a diligent and dedicated hand.  Given you have stated _you_ believe us to be a couple, then all relevant parties have agreed to the postulate.”

Sorry… fell into a ditch after the needle part.

      “Is that a yes?”

      “Was I not clear?”

      “Not for my brain, which isn’t as clever as yours.”

      “True.  Then, I shall state it plainly.  Yes, we are a couple.”

      “Hurray!”

      “I am in full agreement.”

      “Any other questions on your list?”

      “Thirty-two.”

      “Ok… any of those you want to ask now?”

      “No, I feel the most relevant ones have been addressed to my satisfaction.\

      “Then I declare the list conquered!  Are you… can I give you a kiss to celebrate?”

      “I believe that is appropriate for the situation, yes.”

Greg set down his wine carefully, because a spill would certainly prevent him getting his kiss until he cleaned it and eliminated any staining on the rug, then moved forward to greet Mycroft’s tilted-up head with a kiss that started gentle and sweet before progressing into something steamier and more spine-tingling.

      “I’ve missed that, love.  Missed it terribly.”

      “As have I.  I can live without you, Gregory.  I can do it handily, but I do not wish to.  I am suffused with joy when we are together, and I would much rather have that joy in my life than live without.  It is a glorious thing and, yes, I _have_ missed it terribly.”

      “And I can live without you, Mycroft, but my heart fills with love and happiness when we’re together and I would much rather live with those wonders brightening my days than without them.

      “Excellent!  We are well matched.”

      “That we are, and nobody can tell us differently.  And, now, what shall we do to inaugurate our full return to acknowledged couplehood?”

      “I… I have no idea. I did not… I was hesitant to predict the outcome of our conversation and, therefore, crafted no contingency plans for either a resumption of our devotional bond or its final termination.  In hindsight, that was likely a tactical error.”

      “A tiny one, perhaps.  So, lets tackle the problem now.  Together.”

      “A laudable suggestion.  What is your proposal?”

      “I… I would love to hear you play a bit more, if you have a taste for it.  Then, maybe someone else entertaining us on my music system while we have a little more wine and talk about… whatever crosses our minds.”

      “I am very interested in this plan, Gregory.  It sounds most relaxing.”

      “After that… what time are they expecting you home?”

      “There is a wager among the staff and Anthea concerning that very question, actually.”

      “Ooh, money on the line, is there?  What are the options?”

      “Antea believes I shall return home at a reasonable hour, regardless of the nature of our conversation, as I will not wish to have you remain awake overly long after your day, which I was informed was a lengthy one.  Mrs. Hudson and Molly have taken the opposite side of that coin, though proposing that _you_ shall be the one who convinces me to remain so as to, in Mrs. Hudson’s words… get nasty.”

      “Old ladies don’t mince words.”

      “They do not.  Charles has also argued for a morning return, though without the ‘getting nasty’ piece, for I have not… I curtailed my research into… nasty… and am, therefore, without the portfolio of skills I desired to possess before such a thing occurred.”

Could Mycroft be any more adorable? Even after all this time, the man was cuter than any plush animal that a toddler might cuddle and try to share their lunch with, much to their mother’s exasperation.

      “Those are all very plausible options.  I suppose, then, it’s about who you’d like to see win the money.  Is it a lot?”

      “A hundred pounds.”

      “Oh, ok.  That’s worth a wager, certainly.  What are your thoughts, Mr. Mycroft Holmes, about the trajectory of our evening?”

      “I do not wish to overtire you…”

      “Tomorrow’s not a bad day for me, so I can manage a bit of overtiring.  Especially if you’re the reason.”

      “Thank you, Gregory, that is most flattering.  However… I do not feel that unbridled nastiness is a prudent path at this particular juncture, for a selection of reasons.”

      “Ok, no wild monkey sex, got it.”

But another day isn’t off the table and I’ll see you get some new ‘research materials’ to perhaps hasten the day our wild monkey sex is table-ready.

      “However… a small measure of nastiness would not be amiss.”

He’s absolutely fucking perfect.

      “Ok… music, wine, conversation, then we take to bed, with you in hand-picked, freshly laundered pyjamas, me naked as the day I was born, and I give you full permission to do anything you’d like with me and command me to do anything your heart desires to you.  Want to watch me stoke my cock until I come?  Get on my knees and suck you down my throat?  Put those gorgeous hands of yours on my body to feel every inch of my skin beneath your fingertips?  Rub your hard cock against my arse until you release all over my back?  Up to you, love. How does that sound?”

Oh shit, he’s blinking.

      “Mycroft?  Can you hold up a finger so I know you’re still… online?”

One finger shakily rose and Greg gave it a tiny kiss, which did a grand job of breaking Mycroft out of his lust-inspired malfunction.

      “I… I shall give thought to what I would enjoy.”

      “You do that.  You give it a _lot_ of thought.  In the meantime, shall I top up your wine?”

      “Yes, I fell that is a stellar idea.”

      “Alright then.  Something lovely to be my soundtrack on the Great Wine-Pouring Adventure?”

      “A film score… some are exceedingly well done.  I shall endeavor to provide something suitable.”

Greg had no idea of the piece Mycroft was playing, but it started quickly and was as brilliant as the first.  And, in a moment, he’d have a refilled wine glass to enjoy while he gladly lost himself in the beauty of his Mycroft’s music and the contentment that inspired it.  Which, even with a small measure of nastiness beckoning on the horizon, he was happy to see continue for hours.  The man he loved was a gem.  A priceless, unique gem that was now returned to him.  This wasn’t how he expected today to end, but there was no better ending to be found in this vast and mysterious universe.  The sprinkling of nastiness was just the luscious honey on the already delicious toast.

Come to think of it, he _had_ honey.  Mycroft loved honey.  Would Mycroft love honey drizzled on this old body so he could run his tongue over especially scandalous bits for both their pleasures?  Maybe.  Probably not tonight, though.  Must remember to write that down to include in the research materials package.  Which would probably be as thick as _War and Peace_ by the time he was finished…


	60. Chapter 60

John had hoped to have the chance to visit Greg’s local and act like normal chaps having a pint or two and, now, he had his chance.  They had a cozy little booth, too, away from the madding crowd that gave them a large measure of privacy, not that it seemed necessary.  The patrons didn’t actually pay them much attention, which was probably why Greg delighted in coming here… 

      “No, I honestly didn’t know Sherlock was spying on you or I’d have let you know to avoid doing anything particularly embarrassing that he’d record and report, with evidence, to Mycroft.  He _did_ say he had a case he was working on, but it’s not unusual that he has a case or two he’s fiddling about with that doesn’t involve me.  I’m proud of him, though… it’s good to know that he went to those lengths to help his brother.”

      “Mycroft needed it, too.  It never occurred to me, a lot of what he said.  About having to know what would happen to me after a big problem, for instance.  I forgot that this is all new to him and he wouldn’t have the framework to understand what happens after a breakup, even if some of his books feature divorced or widowed characters.  I’m sure he was terrified, too, that his own life would be devastated and got confused when it wasn’t.  It’s very strange to know that he’s happy we could explode completely, and it’d be alright in the long run, but I also can’t argue that it’s _not_ something to be happy about.”

Greg would keep to himself how shattering it was for Mycroft to have had Greg see the aftermath and aftershocks of his ‘little episode.’  A shutdown was one thing, but this was quite another and it had embarrassed the writer to his core.  _That_ conversation had come after a lot of piano playing and several large glasses of wine.  Fortunately, Greg had been able to reassure his worried partner that, yes, it had been shocking but, no, it hadn’t been disgraceful or made him think less of the man he loved.

      “No… no, you can’t.  Which of you is going to tell Dolly?  Are you going to flip a coin to decide whose ears get blown apart from her shouting in happiness or wrestle for the privilege?”

      “We’re going to be complete shits and surprise her.  Mycroft is going to ask her and Bertie to come for a visit this coming weekend and I got Anderson to make certain I’ve got those two days free so I can be there, too.  Mycroft didn’t say if he was inviting Sherlock and you, but I can’t imagine he won’t or that he would mind if you decided to pop in and watch the show.”

      “Ooohhh… always happy for free entertainment.  I’ll talk to Sherlock about it.  He’ll say no, but how hard he says no will tell whether it’s a real no or a fake no.  I’ve become an expert at differentiating the two.”

      “Great!  The more the merrier.”

      “Speaking of merrier, how are the film preparations coming along?”

      “On schedule and successfully.  At this point, that’s not entirely surprising, nor predictive of the future.  The original chaos from trying to get people under contract is over and we haven’t gotten far enough along where people might be trying to back out of the project or we’re hitting problems with filming.  Then it’s the post-filming nightmares of reshoots, shooting additional or alternate footage, fights over the final theatrical product, etc.  There are a few times in the process where things are generally right as rain, all is good in the world and everybody’s happy.  Only a few, mind you, but it pays to enjoy them when you can.”

      “So… no juicy gossip to share?”

      “No, you disgusting tabloid journo.”

      “Drat.  No new Rolex for me this month, then.”

      “I had one once.”

      “Yeah?  How’d you like it?”

      “It told the time.  For an idiotically-large amount of quid.”

      “Oof.  Back to the cheap timepieces, I take it?”

      “Yep.  Tried to give it to my dad, who lectured me for a year over being wasteful.  Finally put it in a charity auction, along with photos of me wearing it and a lunch date with me for the winner.  It saw a nice bit of cash to the kiddies, which was far more good than it ever did for me.”

      “Selling yourself for the tots.  Life could be worse, I suppose.”

      “I’ve sold myself for much worse.  Many times.  There are adverts out there you would not believe…”

      “I need copies or the URL on YouTube.  Now.”

      “Wrong.”

      “Right.  I have decided to be your Number One Fan and that requires insider info.”

      “You don’t want inside of me, John.  You really don’t.”

      “I’ll wear hazmat gear.”

      “I’ll give you a taste of the horror.  One… one was for pet clothing.  _Long_ before it was fashionable.”

      “I want it, I _will_ have it, and you will also give a copy to Dolly to make her the happiest person on the planet.”

      “She _would_ like that, wouldn’t she?”

      “She’d be giddy as a school girl.  Give you loads of mum kisses and hugs that break your ribs.”

      “Between that and what she’ll do when she learns Mycroft and I are back together, my ribs and, and the bits they protect, will be naught but dust.  I wonder how Diogenes Bell will seem on screen as a large pile of dust.  I’m not certain even my wildly-inflated celebrity could overcome the audience’s ‘what the fuck’ over that performance.”

      “You’ll manage.  Have Mycroft give you a kiss or something and you’ll be fine.  Speaking of… I take it he’s sleeping today?”

      “Probably.  He didn’t leave my house until after breakfast, or ultra-late dinner, whichever is more appropriate, and looked like he could use a week or two of rest.  We didn’t really sleep, at all, last night and not just because of sexy things, before that evil smile on your face tries to make a joke _about_ sexy things. He’s in London, though, one more night before he goes back home, and I already have plans in motion to make it a very good night for our Mr. Holmes."

      “You must have rushed those plans if you only knew you were back together last night.  Maybe convince him to stay another day and plan something more… elaborate?”

      “Thought about that, but… today isn’t writing day.  Tomorrow, however, is.”

      “Got it.  Mustn’t disturb him on writing day.’

      “No, one mustn’t.”

      “But, now that you raised the issue… describe the sexy things.  And don’t shy away from the detail.  I’m a doctor, after all.  Nothing can shock me.  Or, at least nothing I know of, but I’m always happy to be proved wrong.”

      “No!”

      “I counter with yes and will stake that counter with a fresh pint on my tab.”

      “You don’t have a tab here.”

      “I’ll make one.”

      “Then I _will_ have another pint and just smile enigmatically about the sexy things so your imagination can do all the work for me.”

And John’s imagination would have to work very hard, because trying to imagine what Mycroft might consider sexy things was not an easy thing to do.  For example, he wouldn’t have thought that Mycroft spending an hour simply running his long fingers over every texture on this saggy old body would be sexy, but he’d ended up so hard from the attention and little commands to be still and stop wriggling that when Mycroft finally started inspecting his cock nothing could stop him begging for Mycroft’s explorations to take a slightly different turn and didn’t that fucker happily agree then work his cock and balls with the most maddening combination of pressures and motions that he’d creep to the edge, be poised to fly, then he’d be escorted back to start again.  It was a bloody half-hour before Mycroft decided he could come!  The man was a marvel…

      “Nope, I want full-color, glossy spread just like you’d find in the filthiest porno mag ever published.”

      “I don’t think Mycroft’s Bo Peep outfit would photograph well.  The blue is actually a lot paler than you might expect, but the bows add a splash of something darker for contrast, so maybe it’d work.”

      “Funny.  Funny man.  Though, if you _can_ get a photo of Mycroft in a Bo Peep dress, I’ll buy it from you to use on Sherlock when he’s being a tit.  He’ll see that, faint, and I get peace and quiet for an hour or so.  Well worth whatever price you care to charge.”

      “I’ll keep that in mind!  I may need a few extra quid tonight, as a matter of fact, so if you want to make a deposit on your purchase…”

      “You’re smiling.  Why are you smiling?  And why do you need cash?  Oh god, you’re buying a baby, aren’t you?  Gone completely domestic and buying a nice little baby to match your Bo Peep wife and now you’re part of a strange, but happy, family and you’ll take nothing but roles in heartwarming family films or do voice work for animated films forever more.  Your autograph is going to be completely worthless.  What good are you to me, now, huh?  Tell me that.”

      “Oh, stop complaining.  We haven’t got the nursery ready, so the baby is on hold at the factory.  No… I have _other_ plans.”

      “What plans would make you rub your hands together like a music hall villain?”

      “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

      “Yes, I would.  Very much, actually.”

      “Maybe if I get my fresh pint, I might drop a hint or two.”

      “That’s about all you’ll have time for.  When is Anderson collecting your sad, sad self?”

      “About… forty-five minutes.  I get long lunches if I pout hard enough.”

      “You should tell him to get here in thirty so he can touch up your cosmetics.  You look far too shit for an interview, even if it is with E! News.”

      “There are very talented people they pay for that sort of thing will take care of the ‘oh god I’ve been up all night please make me look presentable’ problems.  Anderson is not one of them, but he _will_ put me in the dedicated hands of someone who is and poof!  I’ll look like someone people won’t throw rotten veg at in the street.”

      “I can’t imagine anyone that talented.”

      “It’s hard to believe, I know, but despite all the bad press the film and TV industries get, well-deserved, I will admit, the people behind the scenes doing the technical work deserve none of it.  They do their very best, and their very best is very good, indeed, even when what they’re given to do is utter crap.”

      “It’s the same with hospitals.  It’s the faces you don’t see that are keeping things running as smoothly as possible.  Now, back to your secret plans that, obviously, are ridiculous, but something I must know, nonetheless.”

      “Pint!”

      “Fine, you evil baby.”

      “What, I’m buying two now?  Will I need one of those horrid double-prams?  They’re like battle tanks on the pavement and I nearly lost a leg to one since the mum was paying more attention to her phone than what was in front of her.  Which happened to be me and about seven other people.  Some dove for safety in time.  Others weren’t so lucky.  Deaths were involved.”

John shook his head and moved towards the bar to get two pints, rather than try and wave over the server in the bustling pub.  Greg definitely had something up his sleeve, but wasn’t going to share no matter how much he prodded.  Ultimately, it didn’t matter, since what was up Greg’s sleeve certainly involved Mycroft and as long as the old buggers were having fun, that was all that counted.  Besides, he and Sherlock would be spending the weekend at Chez Addams Family, so the details wouldn’t be super-secret for long.  Of course, since those two foolishly sappy and romantic, the details would probably be sickly sweet and adorable, rather than wildly kinky or dangerous, so there was only so much fun to be had there, but never let it be said that John H. Watson didn’t support elderly adorableness whenever and wherever he could…

__________

      “Stop.”

      “I… no.”

      “You do or your backside will learn what a good swatting from a practiced hand feels like.”

Mycroft’s brain warred frantically between not wanting to be have his bottom touched in any manner whatsoever by his housekeeper and wanting desperately to know why Mrs. Hudson would declare herself a practiced hand at the act of spanking.  Further, what criteria would differentiate a practiced spanking from an amateurish one?

On Mrs. Hudson’s part, she was just content that she’d effectively stopped Mycroft from pacing about like an expectant father, regardless of the exact method used for the stopping.

      “There.  Now, Mr. Lestrade said he’d be here at seven and would phone if he was to be late.”

      “It is 6:53.”

      “Which isn’t 7:00.”

      “It is a near thing.”

      “Near doesn’t count.  Has he phoned?”

      “No, but… perhaps his phone is disabled.”

      “If he’s with that nice Mr. Anderson, then I suspect there wouldn’t be a problem with having access to a mobile.”

      “But…”

      “Oh, good heavens, man!  You’re more nervous than when he first came to visit!  First came for a proper visit, that is.  All he wants is to escort you out for an evening and even Mr. Lestrade has enough sense to know what would and wouldn’t suit you, so what precisely is the concern?”

      “I… it…”

      “You’re having control issues, aren’t you?”

      “Absolutely not.”

      “Meaning, yes, you’re going loony because he was cheeky enough not to tell you what he had planned, probably because he _knew_ it would make you loony, even though he assured you that there would be nothing happening that would upset you and you could say no to anything without him being angry in the slightest.”

      “Why wouldn’t he tell me his plans!”

      “There’s a word in the English language called ‘surprise.’  Ever heard of it?”

      “Most amusing.  I do not like surprises.”

      “That’s not true.  You don’t like surprises from people you don’t know or surprises that are loud or create a bit of fuss or are too public or try to jolly you along with something you don’t want to do.  You adore surprises like an extra biscuit with your tea or a new feeder for the birds in your garden.  Though you do make your own fuss getting it sorted in exactly the right spot or repainted to a color you feel you can manage at least 60% of the time.”

      “That… yes, I suppose that is true, but I strongly suspect Gregory has not been shopping for bird feeders or biscuits, though I concede the latter is actually not unimaginable in the course of his daily routine.”

Mrs. Hudson’s eyes softened and she tapped Mycroft gently on the arm with the candlestick she picked up from the side table next to her.

      “He loves you, dear… he won’t do anything to make your evening a horrid one.”

      “True, Gregory does try his best to make our time together mutually enjoyable.”

      “Then don’t start thinking that he’ll do differently now.  It’s alright to have the excitement jitteries, though.  Maybe that’s part of all this, too.”

      “I will _never_ be prone to anything as inanely named as ‘jitteries.’  On that I stand firm.”

      “Yes, a touch of the ‘oh, my wonderful Greg is coming to show me a nice time and I’m just giddy as can be’ jitteries is at work here and a good thing it is!  A man _should_ be jittery when he’s getting treated to something special by the man he loves.  That’s right and proper, so well done you on that score.”

Despite the inanity, Mycroft couldn’t help but feel proud that he was correctly behaving according to expected norms.  Without even trying!

      “Oh, and… yes!  He’s here.  No, away from the window, you evil thing.  Don’t want him to think you’ve been standing there with your face pressed to the glass like a dog watching for the postman.  Go and have a seat in the sitting room and try to look like you’re… calm.”

      “That will be most difficult.”

      “Do it anyway.  I’ll get the door.”

Which announced the new arrival only moments after Mycroft scampered off to try and affect an air of cool, calm, and collected.

      “Oh good.  You’re not dressed all funny.”

Greg adored Mrs. Hudson, even when she sounded suspiciously like her employer.

      “Like a clown?”

      “No, like wearing a tuxedo or swimming shorts.”

      “How nervous is he?”

      “Crawling the walls like a monkey.”

      “I did worry about that, but decided he could manage.”

      “No, you decided _I_ could manage, since it would be me having to handle his nonsense.”

      “You know, you could have a point.  Maybe that’s the reason I had the sudden urge to stop and buy…”

Greg pulled the flowers he’d been holding behind his back and grinned at Mrs. Hudson’s girlish giggle of delight.

      “For me?”

      “Absolutely for you.  I’d never buy Mycroft flowers unless I checked first how he was doing with floral scents and what colors had him off-footed on that particular day.”

      “You’re such a good boy.  And a better one for remembering an overburdened old lady.”

      “And an overburdened young lady.”

Greg opened his hand and separated the smaller bouquet from the larger one, carefully chosen with slightly different flowers so it didn’t look like he just asked the florist to bundle up a few in a separate bit because he was lazy.

      “Now, that I _will_ thank you for.  Molly does get overlooked sometimes, the poor dear.  Well, His Majesty is having a relaxing sit…”

The pause for them both to giggle mischievously at that lie was, fortunately, not terribly long.

      “… and waiting for you to get the evening started.  Be off with you and don’t bring him back in the same shape we’ve sent him off in.”

      “Try for sexily rumpled and out of breath?”

      “Perfect!”

As Mrs. Hudson darted away to put her precious flowers in water, Greg smiled softly and started towards the sitting room, wondering how much of tonight’s rumpling might present as sexy.  Hard to say at this point, but one never knew.  Mycroft could be a vigorous bastard when he wanted to be…

      “There’s the most gorgeous man in the world!”

      “Where?”

      “You, Mycroft.”

      “Oh.  Oh!  Thank you, Gregory.  You appear most gorgeous, as well.”

      “Thank you!  Ready to go?”

      “I… yes.  Yes, I am prepared.”

      “Good.  Not much preparation needed, but it’s good to know you are.  Your chariot awaits, sir.”

      “Is it… Horse?”

      “It is Horse.”

      “Ah, good.  I am acquainted with that vehicle, so it shall offer me no surprises.”

Mycroft took a breath, stood, straightened his shirt and dithered over what might help with the coming evening.  Coat?  Scarf?  A dagger?

      “Is there anything I might require?”

      “I’d suggest a jacket and scarf, maybe.  You might… put gloves in your pocket, too, just in case.”

      “Nothing more… exotic?”

      “Like a parrot?”

      “Why on Earth would I need a parrot.”

      “No idea, so let’s not stop and buy one, what say?”

      “I… I am confused.”

Greg crooked his finger and beckoned Mycroft forward to give the now-uncrooked finger a kiss, then wiggled his lips so those could receive their own show of affection.

      “Less confused?”

      “No.”

      “Less caring about the confusion.”

      “I… yes, actually.”

      “Mission accomplished!  On we go…”

This time, Mycroft smiled and started walking towards the door, Greg pantomiming an Igor walk as he followed along, which drew Mycroft’s smile into a laugh.  What was it about his dear Gregory that even the most childish behaviors were positively adorable?  There was likely a study to be found in that observation but, since he had no time for frivolity such as psychiatry, the issue could remain a joyful mystery…

__________

      “Delicious.  Utterly delicious.”

Mycroft took another long pull of his vanilla shake and bobbed his head unconsciously to the rhythm of the music on Horse’s music player.

      “I thought it would be nice to actually get another shot at a relaxing drive, this time, without having to fight crime or keep your family from meeting a dire end at the hands of a fearsome murderer.”

      “I am delighted at the idea.  London is a scabrous place, but there is a different atmosphere at night that, I do admit, is not unappealing, especially when one can simply relax and enjoy it.  With shakes and chips.”

Which were also delighting Mycroft, given the ready access to finger wipes, should they be needed.

      “I agree, although I’m not sure what scabrous means.  It sounds piratey, though, and that always has my approval.  We’ll see the city mostly by night, in any case, given your schedule, so avoiding the scabbier parts should be easy.  I thought we’d toddle about for awhile, good food, good music, good company and I can show you some of my favorite places in London.”

      “I would enjoy that.  Multiple viewpoints on an issue are always important for broadest perspective.”

      “I agree.  That’s one of the many things I love about being with you.  You see things in a very different way than I do and it opens my eyes in lots of ways.  Helps me see with a wider lens, understand things better and differently.  I enjoy it a lot.”

      “My opinions are sure to elevate the analysis of any particular matter, that is true.”

      “Any new analysis about the weekend, then?  Anderson freed me from the few things I had over my head, so that head is all yours.”

      “Excellent.  I shall phone Mummy and request her and Father’s presence.  I cannot see them refusing, given she has been hounding me unbearably about our breach and would leap at the chance to press her case upon me in person.”

      “She cares, there’s nothing wrong with that.”

      “She has taken to drawing pictures when we videoconference, Gregory.  They are not… polite pictures.”

      “Ha!  Good for Dolly making her point in clear and certain terms.  Well, we’ll see those rude pictures laid to rest soon enough.  And, speaking of pictures… one item of business for the evening is in the folder on the seat behind you.”

Mycroft turned his head, noticed the large envelope sitting quietly and narrowed his eyes at Greg before stretching to reach to retrieve it.

      “Go ahead and open it, it won’t bite.”

Slowly undoing the flap, Mycroft hmmmm’d suspiciously before drawing out something that made him gasp loudly in surprise.  Though he could not classify the surprise as good or bad, at present.

      “It… it is me.”

      “That it is.  I had Wiggins swing by the studio today and bring a sample of photos I thought might be good for a fundraiser that your literacy charity is gearing up.  A signed photo of you, in your very effective disguise, would be a staggeringly high-profile auction item and raise loads for the reading programs they’re hoping to fund.  I ran the idea by Anthea first, though, and she said you always put something in for their fundraisers, like a signed book, but this would really drive up the bidding by leaps and bounds.  And, best of all… nobody seeing that would pass you in the street and think for a moment you were the great and powerful Mycroft Holmes, greatest mystery writer in the history of the written word.”

Mycroft stared at the photo of him, standing in his study and looking out the window, that must have been taken without him noticing.  The composition made him look as he truly was, intelligent and serious-minded, but added a layer of formidability that he had hoped to achieve with his disguise.  Further proof it succeeded!  And… if he was honest… the pose, the lighting, the angle… it was a stellar portrait, regardless of the subject.

      “You believe this would be a desirable item?”

      “Anthea predicts fights are going to break out over it.  It’s a phenomenal photo of someone who scarcely allows any photos at all, so… yes.  She anticipates this is going to be highly collectible.  On my part, I’m putting in an annotated copy of the shooting script from one of my films.  I go through it and jot down notes here and there of things I remember about filming or things that happened on set that were funny or interesting.  It won’t see as great a price as your photo, naturally, but people like that sort of thing and are willing to pay a bit for it.  And it all goes to your literacy project, so I’m happy to do it.  Of course, it you don’t think it’s a good idea to put your photo in, you don’t _have_ to do it…”

Though the gleam in Mycroft’s eyes said that rejecting the notion was not winning any races in his head.  It had been a gamble, Greg had been very well aware of how big a gamble it was, but given the photo was a truly phenomenal one and very richly provided with disguise, it certainly stood a chance of being a gamble won.

      “No… I… see no compelling reason to object to the situation.  I have actually been somewhat remiss in keeping a watchful eye on my charity and this certainly would be some small recompense for them having to labor without my guidance and direction.  Yes, yes, I think I shall happily sign this and send it to auction.  As you say, it looks nothing like me in reality, so the danger of increased exposure is pitifully low.”

Greg nodded sagely, but mentally did a little jig in celebration, both for Mycroft agreeing to participate in the fundraiser and for the small smile on Mycroft’s lips that said his love was highly pleased both with the photo and that it would be something people would want to own.  Bit of smugness in that smile but, also, a bit of kicking away a few demons that plagued everyone now and again, adulthood being no particular balm for old insecurities.

      “I think that’s a good decision.  Very well-reasoned.  You can sign anytime, and I’ll see it delivered to the right people.  More chips?”

      “Oh, yes, please.”

Mycroft carefully put the photo back into its envelope and ran his fingers along each edge three times, clockwise, counterclockwise, then clockwise again, before carefully setting it back on the rear seat for safe keeping.

      “Make certain to eat your fill, because… well, I’ll just stop there and say enjoy as many delicious chips as your luscious belly wants.”

      “Gregory… you are attempting slyly to perturbate me.”

      “Is that what I’m doing?”

      “It is.”

      “Well… that is something I did not know, but now do, so thanks!”

      “Gregory!  You are positively reveling in your scampishness.”

      “I am.  I admit it.  Call it… a consolation.”

      “Consolation?”

      “Yep.  For later.”

      “I do not understand.”

      “True.”

      “Gregory!”

      “Eat chips, you’ll forget all about my scampishness.”

      “I certainly shall not.”

      “Want some cheesecake for afters?”

      “You… you know of a convenient location?”

      “I do.”

      “I…”

      “You just imagine your creamy, luscious piece of exceptional cheesecake while you munch your outstanding chips and… relax.”

      “This is a manipulation tactic, is it not?”

      “Yep.  Is it working?”

      “Surprisingly, yes.”

      “I’ll keep that in mind for the future.”

__________

There was nothing as mesmerizing in the world as a contented Mycroft Holmes.  His glowing eyes, small, satisfied smile, clear signs of calm in his posture and voice… Greg knew he could watch this man for hours, doing nothing but delighting in the world around him, and never grow tired of it.

      “It is a glorious night, Gregory… I feel this little drive has been a balm to my weary soul.”

      “I’m glad, love.  Anytime your soul is weary, I’ll do whatever I can to help.  Put some wind back into your sails.  And… not that wind will be quite so relevant to this little venture, but… it looks like we’re here.”

      “Here?”

      “Yes, here.  I’ve been hoping to learn something and now I have my chance.”

Mycroft looked around perplexedly but didn’t see anything immediately to alleviate his vexation.

      “We are at a deserted… something.”

      “Not deserted, just bought out for the night for a private party.”

      “Oh Gregory… I do not like parties.”

      “That’s why only two people are invited and they’re already here.”

      “Where?”

      “One is sitting next to you and the other _is_ you.”

      “Oh… Ah, I see.  A witticism.”

      “A tiny one.  And there _is_ another surprise waiting, but we’ll have to dismount Horse and go off to find it.”

      “You did assure me this would not be objectionable.”

      “I assured you that and offered you a kill switch, so you have zero worries on that score.  Come on, let’s go.”

Greg hopped out of the vehicle, gave the bonnet a hearty pat and waited for Mycroft to gingerly exit the passenger’s side, peering about as if he was expecting to be attacked by ninjas.

      “I think it’s this way.”

Nodding over towards what seemed to Mycroft like an entrance, though the signage wasn’t illuminated as he suspected it might be normally, Greg put his best swagger to use covering the distance in short order, listening for Mycroft to follow behind once he collected his thoughts.  Though those thoughts seemed to fray again by when they were greeted by a short, gingery man with a half-smoked cigarette in the hand that wasn’t begin used to wave them over.

      “It is you!  I half-suspected it was some prank, but the payment went through cleanly enough, so I didn’t much care, but… it’s you!  An honor, Mr. Lestrade, sir, really, an honor.  The wife is going to be beside herself to hear this was fully on the up-and-up.  She’s a big fan of your films, sir.  We both are but she gets a special thrill from them, if you know what I mean.”

Greg knew very well what the man meant and how much it contributed to the profit potential of his work.

      “Mr. Wilkinson, very good to meet you.  I’ll have my agent send along an autographed photo or two to your wife for her troubles.  I know it must be an inconvenience to have you out here tonight.”

      “Not at all!  I may own the place, and have the lads do most of the work, but I do stop in now and again to make certain all is up to spec.  And, you sir… Mr. Holmes, is it?  You’re another one the wife is going to be beside herself over.  She reads everything you write and… well, some rainy weekends the floor by her chair has a stack of your books ready for her to pick up and read.  A pleasure, sir, a genuine pleasure.”

And, because he’d been sent a little tip sheet for dealing with his celebrity guests, Mr. Wilkinson did not extend a hand to shake to Mycroft, nor to Greg, so Mycroft didn’t feel spotlighted.  And, with that hurdle cleared and Greg’s gentle smile helping him along, Mycroft rallied quickly, despite his confusion and undercurrent of unease.

      “Thank you, Mr. Wilkinson.  That is very kind of you to say.  I… I shall have Gregory send along a signed volume of my work for your wife as my thanks to her for being a loyal reader.”

Greg’s subtle thumb’s up made Mycroft’s eyes light and a little of the unease flow away from him.

      “That would be… she’d never stop talking about it!  I appreciate that, sir, I really do.  Well… you two ready to get started?  It’s just you tonight, which is a genuine treat for me, since I’ve got a telly in the office and can put my feet up, being a bit of a lazy sod, while earning my wage.  That’s the life, right?  I’ll get you sorted first, though.  Oh, and Mr. Lestrade… I know fine craftsmanship when I see it and you got top of the line.  Very good choices, sir.  Everything’s per your request, so no worries on that score.  Refreshments ready and consider the place yours for as long as you like.  For what me and the wife are seeing from this little… private party… you can stay a bloody week and it’d suit me fine.  So, be off with you and I’ll be over there in the office if you need anything.”

Mycroft tried to interpret Wilkinson’s happy nod and pointing to their right as he strode away with a spring in his step and turned a ‘what is going on’ glare at Greg, who gave a beaming smile in return.

      “Gregory… the time has come for an explanation.”

      “It’ll be more effective with visuals.”

      “Provide them, then.”

      “My pleasure!  Over this way, I think...”

Another swaggering walk took them through a fenced entrance and face to proverbial face with Greg’s little surprise.

      “I… Gregory, that is a vehicle.”

      “It qualifies, yes.”

      “It… it is painted to… why…”

      “I had Anderson get started on these as soon as… well, as soon as I realized we were ok again and I knew I wanted to give you something nice for going to all that trouble to make certain _we_ are what you wanted in this life.  Not that he did the painting, mind you, but he found the right company who manufactured these lovelies, pro-quality ones, and was happy to take a rush custom job.  Fresh off the line and I specified that once the custom work was done, nobody was to sit in yours, so it’s perfectly pristine inside and you’ll be the only person to have ever sat in that brand new seat.  And, yes, I had them make him a twin, fraternal not identical, to your valiant steed.  Herbie II, Go Kart Extraordinaire is yours to command, Captain Holmes.  But, don’t think you’ll have an easy time beating me on the track, because I may not have your alternate-vehicle piloting experience, but I’m a quick study.”

Mycroft’s shocked expression didn’t waver in the slightest as he hesitantly stepped forward to inspect his gift, carefully tracing the numbers painted on long bonnet-cum-steering column.

      “You… you want to race?”

      “Absolutely!  You’re a demon with Herbie I and I’m dying to test my skills against a demon of your caliber.  Not afraid of a little competition, are you?”

Mycroft’s ‘Why, I never, you take that back’ gasp was only half-serious, since the twinkle that flashed in his eyes said the concept was sparking a _lot_ of synapses.

      “I certainly am not.  I would ask, though… is there a theme for your steed?  It has a most singular appearance.”

Greg grinned and gave a villainous laugh.

      “That’s the Mach Five.  Or, I suppose Mach Five-Point-One, since it is an unofficial baby brother.”

      “The Mark Five?  I thought that was a musical group.”

      “Mach Five, not Mark Five.  Are you thinking of The Dave Clark Five?”

      ‘That does not sound correct.”

      “The Jackson Five?”

      “Ah, yes.  Mummy finds them most peppy.”

      “That they are.  But, still wrong.  The Mach Five!  Speed Racer’s car!”

      “I am not familiar with that musical group.”

      “Not a musical group, a cartoon.  Though the theme song _was_ fairly peppy.’

Greg launched into song, with a bit of dance thrown in to round out his performance, taking a bow when Mycroft applauded happily.

      “Bravo, Gregory!  I still have little idea about what you are speaking, but you infused your performance with a laudable amount of energy.”

      “We _will_ be watching cartoons the next time we have some time together, this I do decree.  In any case… are you prepared to meet my challenge, Mycroft Holmes?  We’ve got that enormous track to ourselves, a large selection of quality treats for fuel breaks and I, for one, am smelling the scent of personal victory on the wind…”

Giving Mycroft a look that was half-taunting, half-Blue Steel, Greg upped the ante by peeking the tiniest bit of tongue out, savoring the brief startle, then determined look he was given back by his go kart adversary.

      “I accept your challenge, you… cockalorum.”

      “That sounds filthy.  I like it.  Start mark is over there.  I’ll meet you when you’re ready.”

Greg gave his tongue another bit of exposure before he hopped into his go kart, donned his safety helmet, and sped over to the start mark, experiencing his own bit of startle at how quickly the little vehicle accelerated and how sensitive was the steering.  This was going to be harder than he thought.  Funnier, too.  This was shaping up to be a _very_ entertaining night…

For his part, Mycroft watched Greg lurch off, nearly crash into a barrier before correcting his course which had him nearly crash into _another_ barrier and began to smile widely and knowingly.  This was… delicious.  Gregory had gifted him with an astonishingly original surprise, a highly-welcome one, and… the poor man had no idea of the enormity of the maelstrom into which he had flung himself.  One does not tug at the tiger’s tail, dear, dear man, unless one is prepared for the teeth and claws to follow…


	61. Chapter 61

      “Is all at the ready?”

      “For the hundredth time, yes.”

      “I have not asked that question of you a hundred times.”

      “You’re right.  It’s probably more.”

Mrs. Hudson narrowed her eyes at Mycroft, who was nearly dancing foot to foot in anticipation of his parents arriving.  The man was positively daffy at the thought of his little surprise and she could only hope that he didn’t explode before they arrived or his mother would certainly find a necromancer to resurrect his bits so she could give them a good scolding for disappointing her yet another time.

      “I disagree.”

      “Fine.  You’ve asked me 99 times.  Is that better?”

      “No.  It is as nonsensical as the first declaration since I know perfectly well that you have not been tabulating my questions in any manner that would permit an accurate count.”

      “Doesn’t matter.  I’ve got a mind like a steel trap.”

      “Beastly?”

      “See if you get any popcorn from me tonight.”

      “Unfair!  I should not have to suffer for your setting up a perfectly acceptable jest.”

That, Mrs. Hudson decided, was a valid point, which didn’t make any difference on its own, but it was her Mr. Holmes making the jest and that was something to encourage.

      “Alright… you can have a _small_ popcorn.  Your handsome lover can have his normal rain barrel size, as well as the rest of yours.”

      “Aha!  Given I shall be watching the film _with_ Gregory, I can have all the popcorn I desire.  You are thwarted, madam!”

The man was a genius, but still the sweetest seven-year old Mrs. Hudson had ever known.

      “Woe is me.  Now, what time does Mr. Lestrade arrive?”

      “He was not entirely certain, as he had a few matters to tend to in London today if he wished the full weekend to be at his disposal.  A car shall deliver him here and he shall take the train home on Monday morning.  I was not entirely content with his somewhat fluid arrival time, but one must make compromises in a relationship as successful and supportive as ours.”

Given Mycroft’s words were stated in a very matter-of-fact tone, Mrs. Hudson simply nodded in agreement, since smiling widely might be misinterpreted in some manner that only Mycroft could muster and that would never do because it was a genuine delight to see her dear boys happy again.  And, from the rather elaborate manual Mycroft seemed to be writing that detailed appropriate responses and proactive measures to _keep_ their relationship successful and supportive, that happiness would likely never fracture again to such a tragic extent.

      “However, it was critical that he arrived after Mummy and Father, so our surprise, by my calculations, had maximum impact, but the precise moment he crossed the threshold was not wholly material.  Unfortunately, the longer he delays, the longer I must maintain my façade and, though my acting talents are not inconsequential, they are not up to Gregory’s caliber and I may not be able to maintain my air of aplomb, and fend off Mummy’s hysteria, for any lengthy duration.”

      “I’ll give your brother a few prods, so he acts as a distraction.”

      “Oh, that _would_ be most helpful. Sherlock can keep the lens of attention away from me for ages.  The degree to which he can entangle Father is incalculable and Mummy delights in watching them argue over some esoteric bit of nonsense.”

      “Then you should have a quiet time of it.  Ooh, there’s the car.  Now, I know you want your surprise, but don’t do more to make your mother more irritated with you than she already is.  It’s not nice and if she gives you a smack, don’t expect me to bring some ice to help with the bruising.”

Mycroft waved her off and braced himself for his mother’s onslaught of prying and prodding.  Which didn’t appear to be leaping off the starting mark, as Dolly did not exit the vehicle.  Nor, did it seem, was she _in_ the vehicle.  Bertie, however, strode over with the unconcerned pace he generally exhibited when there was nothing immediately capturing his attention.

      “Father.  Why are you here?”

      “You issued an invitation.  Are you experiencing memory problems?”

      “No, but I issued an invitation to you and Mummy both and I see only half that contingent in my entranceway.”

      “Your mother remained in the village.  She claims the purpose is to shop, however, I suspect she is engaging in an information-gathering initiative.”

      “What possible information could she gain from the village?”

      “Your behavior, state of mind, change in purchase patterns… there were other things mentioned, I believe, but I paid them little heed given they followed along her pre-established pattern of… I will have to reflect on the proper descriptor for, and this is surprisingly not unusual, your mother’s uniqueness defies codified language.  Ultimately, your mother now believes herself a detective and is determined to discover clues that will illuminate both your intractability and methods to bring it to a close.”

      “And that is to be found by learning if I am now requesting a greater number of potatoes be added to the weekly grocery delivery?”

      “I doubt questioning her methods would bring much to your life but a greater measure of her wrath.”

      “Likely so.”

      “Besides, I doubt the people in the village are aware you and Gregory have reconciled, so…”

      “WHAT!”

Bertie’s nonchalant expression broke momentarily, and his excited dormouse grin shone brightly.

      “Was I speaking too softly for you to hear?”

      “I… Father.  How… why would you say such a thing?”

      “Because you seemed not to have understood my words.”

      “That is not the statement of reference.  Why would you imply that Gregory is restored to his place at my side?”

      “Oh.  Well, let us consider first your rather florid phrasing of your last sentence.  If I required confirmation, that alone would suffice, however, my original assertion is based upon the fact you phoned your mother to issue this invitation to visit on an even day.”

      “E… even day?”

      “Taking Sunday as Day 0, the days of the week can be classified as odd or even.  Your communication activities demonstrate a statistically significant, highly-significant, in fact, pattern of phoning her on even days.  She might phone you at any day or time, as your mother is prone to act upon impulse, however, that does not describe you.  The only occasions for which I have data on your phoning on even days is when there is matter of tremendous import to discuss, such as your winning the Edgar Award or obtaining your original film copy of _Nosferatu_.”

Mycroft paged through his mental files and quickly compiled data with the purpose of refuting his father’s claim.  The data, however, stood firmly against forming an alliance with him and wholly threw over its allegiance to his sire.  Foul, foul evidence…

      “I… perhaps I might concede to _some_ degree of predictability…”

      “An extreme degree of predictability.”

      “You are free to attach whatever adjective you wish to the situation, but I shall retain my choice for the moment.  In any case, my life has, you must admit, been somewhat atypical of late, so it is to be expected that…”

      “You invited us for a visit, Mycroft.  That, in and of itself, is a rarity.  Combined with an even-day phoning…”

      “ _Atypical_.  You are not unknowing of the term.”

      “I am very knowing of the term, and I concede it is not poorly-applied, but it also lacks relevance in the manner in which you are putting it to use.  A final piece of evidence, if one is required…”

      “Oh, it is, if only to prove your lack of foundation for your claim.”

      “Triple-layer chocolate-hazelnut gateau.”

Eep.

      “I… whatever do you mean?”

      “You mother phoned Martha to inquire about the menu for tonight, as she had plans with friends earlier in the day and those plans generally involve a rather substantial quantity of food and drink.  The cake, Mycroft.  There is no disguising the import of the cake.”

There was not.  His soul was laid bare, betrayed by deliciousness.

      “It… it is a _spectacular_ cake.”

      “And one you only allow yourself to order from the bakery on the most august of occasions, for your self-control when it is within walking distance of your current location is nil.  Really, Mycroft, there was no reality in which the data could tell a different tale.”

If his life was as placid and routine as his father’s, he might have recognized the evidence pattern, however, his own life was far too consuming of mental energy to fritter away on silly minutiae.  Or to fully ignore any peevishness and mental tantrums that may arise from said silly minutiae as he was now attempting to do to a rather shameful degree.

      “It could not be so terribly obvious if Mummy did not make note of the situation.  It is _her_ favorite cake, as well.”

      “Oh, she did.  Never would that bit of information fail to inspire her most gleeful excitement, however… I stated that the cake was likely an offering from you to make amends for your rather churlish conversations since your breach with Gregory and she found my claim credible.”

      “You… lied to Mummy?”

      “Given my certainty on the status of your relationship was only 98%, there _was_ a possibility of an alternate explanation, so offering a potential, yet plausible, suggestion was not entirely deceitful.  Moreover… I suspected that you wished to announce your news as some form of surprise, given your invitation to visit and affinity for flamboyant acts of theater, and thought it inappropriate to deny you that chance.  Further… she will be excessively happy to have both a joyful surprise and much-hoped-for news.  Denying her that experience would not be a loving or chivalrous act on my part.”

It was, Mycroft knew, a mark of his own devotion to his partner that would perpetrate a similar act himself so his Gregory could take from the moment the greatest amount of joy possible.

      “That was kind of you, Father.”

      “Yes, it was.  I was less able to calculate the probability that Gregory would be present for your announcement, but I set a tentative value at 78%, depending upon your attention to grooming and garmenting.”

      “And now?”

      “I shall raise my estimate to 86%, for I know you have other clothes in that suite of colors that have a more casual appearance.  At the moment, you appear as if you are awaiting a suitor to arrive and hope to look your best, so they bestow upon you a kiss at the end of the evening.”

      “Really, Father.  Have you been polluting your mind with tawdry romance novels?”

      “I make a point to at least skim titles from all genres so I can make appropriate recommendations to library patrons seeking a new book to read.  It would be a dereliction of duty to turn them away unserviced.”

      “Hmmm… I suppose you have a point.  I am simply glad I do not have to soil my mental pathways with such low-quality loam.”

      “The books beneath your bed tell a different tale.”

      “FATHER!  How dare you invade my privacy in such a wicked fashion?”

Seeing the new excited dormouse grin, Mycroft stamped his foot and pouted thunderously.

      “I placed _that_ probability at 62%, so I am somewhat proud of the effectiveness of my analytical abilities.  I believe this warrants a second glass of your best brandy in celebration.”

      “Oh, and who says you are having a first glass, evil man?”

      “I brought a bottle, unbeknownst to your mother, so we all could share a celebratory snifter and, therefore, can award myself a second or third glass, at my discretion.”

      “Well… pooh.”

      “A most erudite reply.  Has your brother arrived yet?”

      “Several hours ago.  Doctor Watson currently has him distracted with several new species of poisonous plants I acquired for my greenhouse.”

      “Excellent.  Then we may enjoy our first measure of brandy in some semblance of peace.”

Mummy in village.  Sherlock playing with poisons.  Peace married contentedly with quiet.  Brandy was an astonishingly good way to celebrate this turn of events.

      “A laudable idea.  My study?”

      “That is acceptable.  And, might I suppose your intention is to have pieces of gateau served individually after our meal, as opposed to presenting it whole at table for some utterly gauche effect?”

His father’s face never changed expression, while changing entirely at the same time and Mycroft’s brain lit up like a holiday display.

      “I… no.  Perish the thought.  It would be an unforgivably gauche display.”

      “I agree.”

      “And, as a tangential comment, unrelated to the previous, that particular cake would be nothing short of _sinful_ accompanied by a marvelous brandy.”

      “Again, I agree, though… one must not make declarations if one has not the data to support them.”

      “Unquestionably.  You acquire the brandy.  I shall acquire the cake.”

      “Slices with plentiful chocolate shavings?”

      “Need you even ask?”

Two excited dormice scrambled to gather their contributions to the feast and Mycroft’s step was especially light as he raced towards the kitchen.  There was much in his life he could lay at his father’s feet and shout ‘J’accuse!,’ however the man did concoct the most delicious schemes, at times.  And, thankfully, was not hesitant about bringing them to fruition…

__________

      “You are a rotten apple, Fatcroft, and do not think for a single moment that I shall forget or forgive this slight.”

Mycroft made a grand show of dabbing his already-pristine lips and laying his napkin down beside the crumb-and-icing decorated cake plate next to him on the end table.

      “Woe is me.”

      “The woe will arrive and with apocalyptic fury.”

      “That rather indicates a razing of the house and grounds, which will certainly include the remainder of the triple-layer chocolate-hazelnut gateau.  Not the soundest strategy, perhaps, but vengeance is mine and all that, I suppose.”

      “Your brother has a point, Sherlock.”

      “You are an accomplice to his crimes, Father, so you shall share in the woe.  Prepare yourself.”

Bertie thought a moment, nodded, and mashed the few remaining crumbs of cake from his own plate with his fork so he could deliver them to his mouth.

      “Not by eating more cake!”

      “You were not specific, so you cannot fault my choice as to how I met my woe.  I would ask, though, where is your Doctor Watson?  I thought he was here moments ago?”

Sherlock quickly looked around the study, then back at his father and brother who each were wearing the faint wisps of a smile.

      “That blackguard!  He has fled to the cake!”

      “John is a man with sound and proper priorities, brother dear.  Remain here and gain nothing but your histrionics or flee to the kitchen where he may have cake and, likely, tea.  I applaud his sensibilities.”

While Sherlock stamped his foot, the door of the study opened to admit the final member of the Holmes clan.

      “I remember that dance!”

      “What?  Dance?  Mummy, are you insane?”

      “Weren’t you doing the Mashed Potato?”

      “What… do you see any potatoes on the floor?”

      “Sherlock, you silly sheep, you don’t actually mash real potatoes.  That would be a bit wasteful, don’t you think, because I doubt anyone would want to eat them afterwards, no matter what you might do to give them a bit of extra flavor.  Besides foot flavor, that is.”

      “I have no idea, whatsoever, how to respond to that besides… no.  This is outrageous.  Mummy, you evil villainess.”

Sherlock pointed directly at his mother’s face which had Mycroft and Bertie squinting to finally see the small fleck or two of chocolate at the edges of her mouth.

      “What?  Not that I’m not chuffed to be a villainess, because they’re always sultry and mysterious, but I think you’re having a moment, Sherlock.  Maybe a little sit would be good for you.  Looks like your dad has something nice in his glass and if you’re a good boy, he might give you your own glass of something nice to enjoy with your sit and think.  And… ah.  Hello, Mycroft.  I see you are… already sitting.  How convenient for you.”

His mother could try for supercilious, but it was a staggeringly difficult thing for a woman wearing his partner’s face on her shirt, a pair of heart-shaped sunglasses pushed up into her frazzled hair and earrings that boasted a large, silver GL as their theme to manage successfully.

      “Yes, Mummy, it is.  And polite, as it would have been rude to loom over Father while we enjoyed our conversation.”

      “Polite.  Well, nice that you remember that sort of thing.  At least for some people.  Conversing, too.  It’s amazing how many people in the world there are to converse with, some handsomer, sexier, kinder and funnier than others.”

Mycroft shared a look with his father that puzzled Sherlock, but Dolly wrote off as a plea for an ally in the fight.  However, she had extracted a blood oath from her husband not to pettifog this issue or undercut her tactics in any manner whatsoever, especially those that you needed to be an academic genius to understand so Mycroft could claim victory and she’d have no idea why.

      “The diversity of the human species _is_ rather robust, Mummy, that is true, so I find no flaw with your analysis.”

      “Oh, you miserable boy.  Well, you can’t hide from me here or hang up the phone or fake a case of plague, which even _I_ knew was complete bollocks, so you were just silly to try.  We’re going to have a nice chat, you and I, or a chat, whether it’s nice or not, and I’m going to get to the bottom of this nonsense and… un-nonsense it.”

While Dolly was lecturing and wagging her finger, all three men in the room remained perfectly still and attentive, though they could see the study door cracking open behind her and a familiar figure creeping through, with several sets of interested eyes peeking, as well, in to watch the fireworks.

      “Nobody can un-nonsense things like you, Dolly, that’s for certain.”

Dolly’s being-murdered scream had Mycroft and Sherlock diving in shock behind Mycroft’s armchair, but Bertie had heard this once or twice during their marriage and dove forward, instead, to catch his wife as she fell forward, overcome by the force of her shock.

      “Steady yourself, Dorothy.  It would not do to suffer head injury and spoil Mycroft’s and Gregory’s reunification celebration.”

Dolly regained her composure only enough to swat away her husband’s hands, give him a quick, gentle, pinch on his cheek, whirl around and launch herself into Greg’s arms, already spread wide and waiting for the inevitable hug.

      “Greg!  Oh my… oh my oh my oh my… you’re here!  You’re really here!”

Greg returned Dolly’s hug, though with far less physical force since he was actually being deprived of oxygen that his muscles sorely needed _for_ physical force, and smiled warmly.

      “I am!  Mycroft kindly allowed my worthless self back into his loving arms and I suspect you’re not going to be rid of me again anytime soon.”

Greg was actually very used to women, and more than a few men, crying on him, so Dolly’s happy sobs were nothing new, but they rarely made his heart grow so large when they were watering his shirt like a potted plant.

      “I’m never letting you go, you wonderful, wonderful boy.  I’ll toss out Mycroft and let you be my firstborn, instead.”

Mycroft’s put-upon sigh and Sherlock’s diatribe concerning his refusal to share any kinship, even by appointment, with Greg, was utterly lost on Dolly who was feeling her world right itself.  She had been so angry at her eldest but that was the minor slice of her pain.  She had been so terribly scared for her Mycroft.  Scared that he would simply close himself off to the possibility of reigniting this relationship but, worse, of deeming himself unworthy of love and freezing his heart to the point that nobody would ever be able to thaw it.

      “I’ll happily have a place in your heart, Dolly, but we’d best not unseat Mycroft from his throne, or he might get a bit peevish.”

      “A peevish pickle!  Green, too, most likely.  Oh, Greg… Bertie!  Do you see who’s here?  It’s Greg!”

      “I have eyes, they are open, and I am standing approximately 1.4 meters from his current position.  It would be highly unlikely that I would fail to see him.”

      “Another peevish pickle!  We’re a two-pickle family and I couldn’t be prouder.”

Greg leaned over and whispered something in Dolly’s ear, making her giggle.

      “Right you are!  A three-pickle family!  I see you pouting over there, Sherlock Holmes.  A perfect pickle pout!  Ooh, I have to pinch those pouty cheeks…”

Sherlock dropped behind Mycroft’s armchair and began crawling around the side opposite the one Dolly was darting towards for her motherly pinch.

      “Let me have a pickle pinch, my sweet son!”

      “Your hands shall not touch my pickle!”

Dolly stopped, then started laughing loudly, joined by Greg and the house staff who were spying on the goings-on, though Mycroft and Bertie simply looked confused.

      “You pickle is safe, Sherlock dear, unless you create a formula that puts you back in nappies and you need your bath.  Can’t avoid it then, as any mum knows, but you’ve got John now to tend to that for you, so I suppose it doesn’t matter a whit anyway.”

      “John!  Why are you not leaping to my aid?”

      “Because he’s not here, Sherlock.”

      “He should be, Lestrade.”

      “Not if he’s smart and for _many_ reasons, but not the least of which is that delicious cake I saw him eating when I peeked in the kitchen to say hello to Mrs. Hudson.”

      “The cake!  How far have I fallen in life that my nemesis is a cake… oh god.  I am Mycroft.  This is officially the lowest point of my life.”

      “A challenge!  Let’s see if this takes you lower, lad…”

Greg reached into his jacket and called Dolly over to show her his prize, smiling widely at her nearly ear-splitting squeal of delight.

      “Bertie!  Bertie come and see!  Our Mycroft on the cover of a magazine!”

It wasn’t only Bertie who darted forward, it was the entire household, including John who had actually finished his cake a bit ago, but was happy to hide out of sight and listen to the free entertainment the Holmes family provided in abundance.

      “Henry phoned yesterday about doing another piece on me, boring as that will be, and mentioned that he was fairly certain the story he’d written, and Mycroft properly approved, actually made it under the wire to go into the latest edition and not the following one, as he’d thought.  Actually, he thinks they tossed something meant to come out in _this_ issue to make room for Mycroft’s profile, since… well, who wouldn’t!  Look at that handsome chap on the cover… I pity the excited fans who would go off looking for that bearded fellow and wonder why they can’t find him for love nor money.”

Greg closely watched Mycroft’s face to ensure there wasn’t any upset, but he honestly didn’t expect to see any.  Everything had gone through Anthea’s and Mycroft’s hands before the article and photographs were considered officially approved at all pertinent levels.  Seeing it all together in glossy color, though…

      “The distributors won’t get copies for another week or so, but I had Anderson get a stack for friends and family, most of whom are here at the moment, so everyone can snatch a copy from my luggage for their very own.  And, of course, have them signed by the man of the hour.”

Who was staring at the cover photo with widened eyes.  For someone who was wildly famous, Mycroft always seemed surprised by evidence _of_ that fame, something Greg hoped would never change.

      “The photograph is well-chosen, Mycroft.  You appear both cultured and intelligent.”

      “Th… Thank you, Father.”

      “You appear constipated.”

      “Thank you, as well, Sherlock.”

However, Mycroft easily could see something on Sherlock’s face that was suspiciously close to pride, so he would forego having Mrs. Hudson provide his brother a wafer-thin slice of cake after their meal as penalty for his infantilism.  Fantastically-rich cake was not beneficial for a baby’s digestion, but Sherlock should enjoy _some_ reward for his heavily-camouflaged goodwill.

      “You’re so handsome!  My son is nearly as handsome as his sexy lover and… oh, the girls are going to have their eyes pop right out of their heads when they see this!  I’ll buy one for each of them, though not at this price because I can get nearly three of my ladies mags for that cost, so you have to buy them for me, Mycroft dear.  Twenty or thirty should do.  Oh, and some for the library.  People should be able to pop in for a book and get the chance to sit for awhile and read all about you.  Bertie, you need to have one of those displays you like to put up when there’s something new going on at work.  Maybe we can get this photo blown up to an enormous size and put it up on one of those big display easels so everyone can see how handsome Mycroft is.  Actually, I want one blown up to enormous size to frame to hang on the wall.  And, now I see this… I’ll phone that Wiggins boy to take a snap or two of Sherlock so we can blow it up, too.  Sherlock!  Practice some poses so we can get a cultured and intelligent photo of you to blow up and hang next to your brother.”

Greg cut eyes at Mycroft and hoped his partner realized just what an opportunity for fun, and torture, it would be to drag Wiggins here one weekend for Dolly to direct a photoshoot for her youngest.  That was something you could call performance art, sell tickets to and make a bloody fortune.

      “If he tries to wriggle out of it, Dolly, let me know and I’ll put the screws to him.  He can get a bit arty now and again, and put on airs when he should be grateful for a bit of solid work like taking photos for proud mums to put on their mantlepiece.”

      “Artistic types… I know all about those, Greg dear, so yeah, I’ll ring you up if I need to.  Mycroft can be so fussy about any little thing I ask him to write for me and I have to put his dad on the phone to get the silly bean to cooperate and even that doesn’t work!”

      “Mummy, you asked me to write a story centered on two characters from one of your silly films… fornicating.”

      “I certainly did not say fornicating!  I said shagging, which is filthier, and you were a stuffy sausage and refused to do it.  You see, Greg, we had an auction for the local animal charity, and I knew the lades who’d be bidding , since they were all friends or friends of friends which is close enough for this sort of thing, and they would positively leap at a sexy story with Loki and Thor having it on with each other or that Doctor Strange and Iron Man because… well, it’s rather self-evident, isn’t it?  And Mycroft wouldn’t do it, no matter how much his father told him to.  Of course, I had to coach Bertie a bit on it all because he used to read the comics years ago when they weren’t so sexy and delicious like they are in the films so he thought I was daft at first, but he did a grand job with it, in any case.  Not that it worked because my son is prissy and doesn’t love his mother.”

The fact Molly and Mrs. Hudson were nodding strongly in sympathy said there would have been two additional bidders on that piece of slashfic if they couldn’t steal a copy for themselves off of Mycroft’s computer.  Given there were countless bits of fan fiction about him and every character that had shared a film with him, Greg could sympathize.  A lot of those were scorchingly hot and very well written…

      “I’m your man!  In the meantime, how about we all enjoy a glass of the champagne I had Charles lay in for me that Mycroft doesn’t even know about and we celebrate his extremely successful interview.  We’ve got some time until dinner and our second serving of cake so…”

      “WHAT!  Lestrade… you also had cake?”

      “Uh, yeah, Sherlock.  Just a bite or two, I wasn’t going to wait… nobody can resist that.  Nobody is that strong.  It’s just not possible.”

      “Am I the only person in this house who has not had a piece of cake?”

Since all heads were nodding yes, Sherlock snarled mightily.

      “There is cake aplenty, brother, and I see no reason you cannot have a portion while we enjoy our champagne.  In fact, there is no reason we all cannot enjoy a piece, a second in our case, as there is no scripted rule that requires cake be consumed _after_ dinner.”

Which was why Mrs. Hudson had ordered _two_ cakes be delivered, given the family’s complete lack of self-control when it came to extreme chocolatey goodness.  The odds that a crumb of either cake survived until dawn were slim to none.

      “That is satisfactory.”

      “And Gregory shall read aloud the interview for our cake-and-champagne entertainment.”

Dolly squeezed Greg’s arm excitedly and the actor readied his most ridiculous overacting urges to leap to the fore.  Entertainment _would_ be had, and it would be worthy of the accompanying decadence.

      “Lead on, love!  I’ll do my best to make you proud with my inspired performance.”

Taking that as their cue, Charles darted towards the kitchen where the champagne was chilling and Mrs. Hudson and Molly followed to get a cake service ready for which three pieces for the hardworking house staff would be included, since nothing on Earth would stop them enjoying a treat and listening to Greg Lestrade put on a show that would surely make their Mr. Holmes blush.  And that, most certainly, would lead to more extensive blushing later on, once the rest of the house was otherwise occupied.  Or told to sod off so the masters of the house could enjoy their own explicit fanfiction that they co-wrote, starred in and acted out with vigor… 


	62. Chapter 62

Given he was in The Haunted Mansion and questioning anything was just silly, Greg didn’t inquire about Mycroft having his popcorn served in a teacup and his portion being delivered in pot Mrs. Hudson likely used when making broth to freeze for the next several months, but the pot nestled nicely in the empty cinema seat between the two of them so each could enjoy unlimited handfuls at their leisure.  And it was absolutely necessary to have leisurely unlimited popcorn since a double-bill of _Witchfinder General_ and _Night of the Demon_ demanded mountainous quantities of buttery bliss.

      “Why can’t they make films like this anymore, I ask you?  And I’m in the film business!  These old horror films… they scare a person, not make you want to vomit, like the modern ones do.  Not all of them, mind you, there are a few that are genuinely creepy, but not a lot of studios are putting out films where the fright score exceeds the gore tally and we’re all a lot poorer for it.”

      “I agree, unfortunately.  I attribute it to the reduction in thinking capacity of the general public.  If a piece of intestine is not hurled in their face, they have not the ability to recognize the peril of a situation and, therefore, fail to experience the exquisite thrill of dread and terror that older, more thoughtful, films supply.”

      “There’s a balance to be struck, I suppose, the bloody bits and the thoughtful bits… sort of like those stories you and Henry are writing, though you won’t let me read any of them.  From what you’ve told me, though, it’s a good mix and even the gory stuff has a more than just… uh, what did I say?”

Mycroft’s face was wearing an expression that was normally associated with a recently-released convicted embezzler who was at a dinner party and somebody brought up the laxity of white-collar crime sentencing guidelines.

      “Oh… nothing.”

      “Try again.”

      “Nothing.  Note that I made the declaration with a greater level of confidence on this occasion.”

      “It was very confidence laden, but still a lie.  Try the truth this time.  I bet it’ll sound even better and, as a side benefit, not be a lie.”

This expression was a picture-perfect toddler pout that would have made Sherlock pout when he realized his title as King of the Sulk was in dire jeopardy of being revoked and bestowed to a competitor.

      “Very well.  I was simply… surprised is not the proper word, though there was an element of surprise to be found… I had not expected you to raise the issue of my work with Henry Knight, given the distress it caused you.  It is not, usually, something people do.  At least, I have not noticed that to be the case.”

And now you’re upset because you’re worried you upset me and/or that you misperceived a social situation, which highlights your… youness.  Greg Lestrade wading in to save his damsel from the dragons!  Nobody ever said damsels couldn’t wear trousers, so sexists could sod off with that flowing gown nonsense.

      “Got it.  And your noticing, or not noticing, in this case, is spot on.  Most people avoid things that upset them, but the difference here is, well, there are two differences.  Your work, per se, didn’t upset me, so I don’t have anything against it.  And, also, we talked through things, and that’s important.  If we’d just sort of agreed to move on and didn’t address the problem, it would be a different story.”

      “I see… again, the critical component appears to be communication.”

      “It usually is in a relationship.  Or any social interaction.  Not the easiest thing to do, at times, but matters that are important and necessary don’t come with a guarantee to be easy.”

      “A thing to remember.  Then… you would not be aggrieved if I was to continue my cooperative venture?”

      “God no!  I absolutely want you to keep working on it.  I have no problem whatsoever with you working with Henry, or Wiggins for that matter.  It sounds brilliant, to be honest, and I’m as anxious as anymore, more than anyone, probably, to see what comes of it.  I will never stand in the way of your work, Mycroft.  It’s not right and it’s not fair.  Besides, your crisis manual… what a majestic work of strategy it is…”

Mycroft’s face tossed away it’s uncertain, nervous expression and replaced it with a shy, please smile.

      “It _is_ a comprehensive document.”

      “Absolutely!  All those possible scenarios and protocols for making certain they don’t become problematic.  And code words!  Instantly recognizable code words if one of us is crossing a line and the other needs to us to recognize that.”

      “It is a successful strategy for Mummy and Father, though they use gestures and other physical cues.  I did not feel that would be effective in our case, since many of our potentially troubling circumstances involve physical separation.”

      “A very well-reasoned argument.  So, with all of that in place, you shouldn’t hesitate doing something you want to do for your writing.  Or for anything, for that matter.  If a problem arises, I’ll let you know and you’ll recognize it because I’ll use one of your efficient and agreed-upon tactics to notify you.”

Mycroft’s smile broadened into an endearingly self-satisfied one and Greg tacked a huge sign at the front of his brain to remember this and, periodically, check through Mycroft’s manual, conveniently provided as both a .doc and .pdf file, so he kept that memory fresh.  John and Dolly both knew what it meant to love a Holmes, all the good and all the bad, and proved that with work and patience, it could be a beautiful thing.  You embraced the good with all you had and, as for the bad… it could definitely be minimized though non-romantic things like a crisis manual.  But, since the romance itself wouldn’t exist _without_ the non-romantic bits, he wasn’t going to utter a single complaint about it.

      “Then I shall worry no more about the matter.  Unless you inform me, in a pre-scripted manner, it is an occasion where worry is now warranted.”

      “I will inform you the instant it becomes applicable.  For now, though, want to let me read some of those new stories of yours?”

      “No.”

      “Come on!”

      “No.”

      “Please?”

      “No.”

      “Just one.”

      “No.”

      “Look at Wiggns’s photos?”

      “No.”

      “Just one?”

      “No.”

      “Fine!  Fine… remember this when you want information about the film or to see my or Anderson’s behind-the-scenes snaps.  You know what I’m going to say?  Here’s a hint.  It’s one word.  Two letters.”

      “Is?”

      “No!”

      “It.”

      “No.”

      “By?”

      “It’s no.”

      “Do.”

      “NO!”

      “To.”

      “Stop.  Just stop.  The word is no.  That is the word.  N.O.  No.”

      “I am confused.”

      “Me, too.  So, moving on to our next feature?”

      “Yes and… here is a hint.  Yes.”

      “That’s not a hint.”

      “But, it is.”

      “You didn’t even say what the hint was about so it can’t be a hint.”

      “But, it can.”

      “No, it really can’t.”

      “And you hope to portray a _detective_ , Gregory Lestrade.”

Was Mycroft making a face at him?  And using… tone?  Pursed lips, taunting eyes and tone… oh, that bastard…

      “You wanna play?  We’ll play.”

And do draw up your feet and turn to watch me in your seat, because you’re having fun and it’s more adorable than a basket of bunnies.

      “Let’s see… you dropped a non-hint right after I mentioned starting our next film.  So, it stands to reason that second film is involved somehow.”

      “Hmmmm…”

      “Not going to give me even a micrometer, are you.”

      “MiCROmeter, Gregory.  Not MICrometer.  Apply the antepenultimate rule.”

      “I have no idea what that is, but I’ll try harder in the future.  In any case, you’re still not giving it to me, are you?”

      “No.”

      “On we go then… it’s a film we both wanted to watch, so it wasn’t a controversial choice.  Something about the title, plot, characters or actors, maybe?  I caught that tiny nose twitch, Mycroft Holmes!  One of those, then.  Ok, one of those and… there’s nothing… unresolved… about the film, though.  No questions I had or anything like that.  Nothing that needed hinting to.  So… what might I need a hint about?  Or… or _want_ a hint about?  What we did have a bit of a kerfuffle over was your new stories.  Which are horror stories.  Like our film… oh mighty Mycroft Holmes, could one of your new stories be along the lines of _Night of the Demon_?”

Mycroft Holmes bouncing in his seat, with his curl bouncing along with him was a sight to keep Greg’s heart warm even on the coldest, bleakest filming location imaginable.  And he’d been in enough of those for his imagination to be particularly powerful for that sort of thing.

      “Bravo, Gregory!  In truth, I penned a small homage to M.R. James’s _Casting the Runes_ , which was the inspiration for _Night of the Demon_ , but I felt the connection was sufficient for our purposes.”

      “Then I’ll pay special attention tonight, so I can appreciate your story when I read it.  Might you continue to drop hints while we watch, so I can practice my detective skills?”

      “I generally frown upon conversation during a film…”

      “I feel a ‘however’ coming on…”

      “… however, I might make an exception this single time for I simply cannot resist continuing with our game.”

      “Let the games begin, then!  Make the hints and clues tough ones so I really have to strain my brain.”

      “I shall show no mercy.”

      “Ok, few hearty sips of Coke for caffeine and a handful of popcorn for… vitamins.”

      “And fiber.”

      “Does the brain need fiber?”

      “Likely not, but if your colon is unhappy, I suspect your brain will not be either.”

      “I don’t think I’ve ever heard sounder medical advice in my life.”

      “Thank you, Gregory.  Perhaps have two handfuls of popcorn, for we have more cake to consume and it is the epitome of… fiber lacking.”

      “How much popcorn for each slice of cake?”

      “I have no idea of the appropriate ratio.”

      “If we eat all of our popcorn, think it’s worth two pieces of cake?  Each?”

      “I… yes.  Yes, I do.”

      “We have a mission, Mycroft.  Failure is not an option.”

      “For the sake of the cake!”

      “That’s a prize-worthy rallying cry.”

      “Thank you.  I felt most inspired.”

__________

That was… that was precisely what he’d been shattered at the thought of losing.  Time spent with the man he loved.  Nothing particularly newsworthy, just watching films, listening to music and reading, meals with family, exploring the grounds, chaining Sherlock in the cellar… the last was actually requested by the person being chained because he wanted to test a new escape strategy, but it fell solidly into the category of fun, family games, so it was still normal, in its own twisted way.  There would be other opportunities for things that people would call exciting, they had lots of those to their record already and would undoubtedly add more, but life was often… living.  Plain, simple living, day to day, doing things that made living possible like working and tending to the little things that made you happy and doing that, all of that, with Mycroft made that living particularly worthwhile.

Now that glorious bit of living time would come to an entertaining close while his dear writer slept soundly in his bed.  And _he_ visited the pub.  With the parents.  To wait for the train.  Odds of being bored?  What was a number less than zero?  

      “We have time for a gin and tonic, don’t we Bertie?  Of course we do why did I even bother to ask.  I have a watch and bloody well know how to use it!  A large one for me, will you, dear, while I pop over to chat with Viv for a moment.”

Greg was absolutely certain he saw Bertie’s ears turn off after the first sentence, years of experience giving him confidence that what came after would, in no manner, change the thrust of Sentence One, so why not enjoy a small period of self-imposed quiet in the meantime.

      “How about a table, sir?  We have a small wait before the train.”

Dolly had been ecstatic about riding back to London with the mega-celebrity Greg Lestrade and had insisted that Mycroft upgrade them to, as she put it, Greg class so they could bask in the actor’s reflected glow for the entire trip.  As importantly, she hoped to have access to better quality snacks and drinks which, while not particularly necessary, since she made certain to have a banquet tucked away in her handbag specifically for the train trip, it was something she felt she should experience at least once because if she was asked about that during what she expected to be a legion of microphones pushed into her face now and again at the big parties and awards shows associated with her son’s film, she should have an informed answer on the tip of her tongue.  That conversation was another one that Bertie disengaged from after Sentence One which was ‘Mycroft, get your dad and I Greg class tickets on the train, like the good son you are.’

      “Yes. I prefer a table to the alternative.”

Which, Greg realized, would be the bar, that offered countless opportunities for jostling, elbow rubbing and being accosted by people in various stages of drunkenness who were willing to be the very best friend of anyone with slightly less alcohol in their blood and slightly more cash in their pockets.  And, as luck would have it, his favorite table was available, and his favorite server was already en route by the time they’d taken their seats.

      “Mr. Holmes.  Your usual, sir?”

Was that a fond tone in Ms. Ginnie’s voice?  Bertie Holmes was the most successful ladies’ man in existence without realizing it in the slightest.

      “That is acceptable.  Dorothy would like a gin and tonic, which cannot properly be termed her ‘usual’ since her taste for alcoholic beverages is a highly unpredictable one.  And… yes, I believe there is time for a puzzle, if you have one available.”

      “Oh, I do, Mr. Holmes.  Just for you.”

Greg watched Ginnie reach into her back pocket and extract a slip of paper to place in front of Bertie, whose eyes immediately began scanning it, while his fingers reached for one of his ever-present pencils.

      “Well, looks like Bertie’s sorted so, if you’d like to know what I…”

      “You want a pint of lager.”

      “I… yes.”

      “Unlike Mrs. Holmes, you are _very_ predictable.”

      “Do I get a free packet of crisps or something for making your job easier?”

      “Free?  What were you paid for your last film?”

      “More than a packet of crisps.”

      “One pint of lager and two packets of crisps, it is, then.”

      “Two?”

      “Mrs. Holmes, who did not earn many million quid for her last film, likes to nibble crisps while she waits for the train.”

      “Thank you for attacking the problem of wealth inequality at such a personal and immediate level.”

      “You’re welcome.”

If Ginnie decided to move to London, Greg would immediately put in a good word for her with the owner of his local, because she would have no trouble whatsoever keeping that raggedy lot in line.

      “Hmmm… this riddle is most challenging.”

      “Oh… good?”

      “Yes.  Virginia collects various perplexities with which to challenge me and her talent for finding formidable examples is most exceptional.  I may have to conduct research to flesh out my thoughts on this particular riddle, so I shall save it for the train journey when I have extended time to concentrate.”

Ginnie, Janine, Anthea, his mum… most successful ladies’ man in the fucking world.

      “Sounds fun!  Not for me, because I’m crap for that sort of thing, but fun for you.  Mycroft suggested a book to me to read, which will do its part to keep me occupied.  He’s expecting to discuss it with me as soon as possible, though, by discuss, I actually suspect he means quiz.  He was a bit… a lot… startled that I hadn’t read any M.R. James, so I now have the gentleman’s collected works on my phone.  Mycroft tried to get me to take one of his tablets because, in his words, squinting at my phone screen will give me wrinkles which will compromise my sex-symbol image.  Having my reading specs with me mollified him a little, but I still had to promise to apply moisturizer at the corners of my eyes for awhile to offset any potential crinkling.”

      “He should be more concerned about your level of sun exposure which also promotes skin wrinkles, as well as cataracts and cancer.  If you have yet to do so, you should have your skin mapped so a dermatologist might track changes that are indicative of cancerous growths.”

      “A prudent suggestion, sir.  I’ve got a physical coming soon and I’ll insist on that very thing.”

      “Acceptable.  And Gregory…”

Bertie paused while Ginnie delivered their drinks and Greg’s bag of crisps, Dolly’s having been delivered to her, along with her drink, in the small cluster that had formed at the table she’d been occupying with an equally-gregarious older woman who seemed very happy to expand their chat to include as many voices, and as much gossip, as possible.

      “Yes, sir?”

      “I wanted… I wanted to thank you.  Formally, thank you, for allowing Mycroft the time he required to process his experiences and recognize what was the correct path forward.  I spoke with him about his methods and, while not entirely fair to you, they were appropriate for the necessary analyses and did produce the intended outcome.  Not all would have been as patient and I have cautioned him against employing such time-consuming tactics in the future, but you _were_ willing to show patience and, for that, you have my gratitude.”

      “I… you’re welcome.”

Bertie nodded contentedly and Greg decided that there was benefit in speaking with someone who appreciated concise communication because he’d felt a bit of a heartfelt speech coming on and that certainly would have made the elder Holmes uncomfortable.

      “You have not discussed disclosure.”

Not uncomfortable, but certainly unfathomable.

      “I… I have no idea if we have or have not because I’m not sure what that means.”

      “Your relationship.  I asked Mycroft and he indicated the topic of making your union public yet had not been broached.”

Oh.  That massive white elephant stomping about the room.

      “Then, yes.  We have not discussed disclosure.”

      “When will that occur?”

      “I have no idea.  Not given it any thought, especially in the last several weeks.”

      “That is understandable, however, the situation has changed.”

      “True, but… to be honest, I don’t know if it’s something that _needs_ to be broached.”

      “Explain.”

      “Well, any formal discussion will probably just make Mycroft upset or nervous and he doesn’t need that, not now, particularly.  Second, it’s really none of anyone’s business but Mycroft’s and mine, so there’s no obligation to give the press a statement or anything like that.  Also, the more you make of something, the bigger a deal it becomes and, again, Mycroft doesn’t need that.  I can assure you that putting the word out officially will have every shifty tabloid hack descending on him like flies on a carcass and he’d… you can imagine how he’d respond to that.  So, with all of that, I’ve not seen a pressing need to announce things formally.  Some might say that’s cowardly, that I’m trying to protect my image or career or something, but that’s not it.  I simply don’t see the need right now.  Maybe there never will be one.  If it does get out, though, I won’t deny it.  Won’t paint the situation in any colors but the true ones.”

      “You are trying to protect Mycroft?”

      “Partly.  But I really don’t think it’s anyone else’s business, despite how public my life tends to be.  And it’s experience that’s guiding me on this, too.  I’ve had relationships that nobody but close friends and my parents knew about, even with some instantly-recognizable names.  When they do become public, it’s usually because the other person made a point of leaking it to the press.  Sometimes with my prior knowledge, sometimes not.  Or it’s a completely fake thing that the studio was using for publicity.  I’m not proud of those and I’ve got enough clout now that I can say fuck off when they even suggest that, but there was a time I couldn’t do that as easily and the publicity was helpful for my career… like I said, I’m not particularly proud of it.”

      “Nor should you be.  However… I am not unaware of the tawdriness of the entertainment industry and the depths to which its claws can drag those lacking the status or fortitude to resist.  The remainder of your arguments show _some_ degree of reflection, but I would advise consulting Mycroft on the matter, if only to demonstrate a respect for his opinion.”

Ouch.

      “Ok, you have a point.  Protecting someone shouldn’t involve shutting them out of important decisions.  I’ll talk to him about it, sir, I promise.”

      “Good.  And I shall do my part by offering reminders to Dorothy that it is inappropriate for her to share your relationship status, no matter how greatly she wishes to place it in the spotlight.  This will also include quashing her plans to have you squire her about London so she might gain access to the various ‘hip’ locales and meet others of your entertainment brethren.”

      “Dolly wants a bit of a turn around the town?  That I _can_ do and without any questions being asked.  Meet her for one minute and anyone would understand why she’s on my proverbial arm, given her son is _not_ about to do it.  Besides, Anderson mentioned that’s it’s now common knowledge that he and Anthea are sort of jointly handling Mycroft and me for film-related issues, so I wouldn’t be surprised if people thought Dolly went through Anthea to have a bit of fun with this trainwreck of an actor.  Will you be joining us, sir?”

      “Was that a serious question?”

      “It was, but I now see the error of my ways.  If there _is_ something you want to use me for access for, though, don’t hesitate to ask.”

The amount of time Bertie thought before answering was a fraction of a nanosecond.

      “I would like to converse with the technical professionals on your film set.  Their various skillsets are most interesting.”

      “That’s actually something I predicted, and I can assure you that it won’t be a problem.”

      “And I desire training for professional video camera use and associated editing.”

That was not predicted but, in hindsight, should have been.  Albert Holmes, Librarian Extraordinaire, was _ravenous_ for knowledge.

      “Uh… for any particular reason?”

      “I have some familiarity with rudimentary equipment and techniques, however, video-focused courses are always highly requested for our community education programs and we lack trained individuals to properly design or deliver a suitable program of studies.”

      “Ok, but I really doubt many in your area have access to their own professional-quality video gear, so it might be better to start with something more… home-based.”

      “ _Mycroft_ will donate funds for a small studio to be made available to the public.  Under my supervision, of course.”

I heard that emphasis, sir, and I fully understand that Mycroft will now mean Mycroft and _me_ for purposes such as donations of time, money or resources towards a good cause.  I am henceforth considered a card-carrying son-in-law without the official benefit of marriage.  Could I be prouder?  No, not at all.

      “I’m sure he’d be honored.”

      “Unlikely, but that is of little consequence.  There is a small amount of inefficiently-used storage space in both the community center and the library to establish a workroom for serious students and for projects that benefit the citizens.  I shall begin preparing it for repurposing.  I suspect, in time, we will need to add audio equipment to allow for the creation and editing of podcasts or radio programs.  Admittedly, those are easier to craft at home, but digital and technical skills are highly sought after in the workplace and we should strive to provide training whenever possible.”

Greg smothered a smile because he had zero doubt that, yes, Bertie would work diligently to provide access and training for any number of the various people in his village and surrounding ones, but would, likely with his friend Theodore, be the most ardent users of the new equipment.  Conveniently, he knew certain levers to pull in the industry which awarded grants of money and/or equipment for this or that worthy cause and would probably love the chance to set up something, with associated training, for a dedicated librarian seeking to improve his community and access to industry-based employment.  Or, at least, do something to gain a lot of good press and a recent example to highlight for donors and government agencies to gain more funds to spread about to the public.

      “I will get right on that.”

      “Good.”

Bertie’s tiny gleeful grin drew out one of Greg’s own.  When the Bertie & Theodore YouTube channel or podcast series went live with very informative documentaries and public information messages, he’d be the first to subscribe.

      “Will you be staying long in London, sir?  I could make a start on things by arranging a studio tour if you’ll be in the city for a couple of days.”

      “We are remaining in London until Wednesday.  That is the extent of time I am prepared to be away from the library.”

      “As always, I am always inspired by your dedication to your job.”

      “Yes, I am a model of commitment to one’s work.”

Which is yet another reason you are also a model of your _son_ , so it’s easy to know what the future holds.  It’s a magnificent sight, if I do say so myself…

___________

      “Look at them all!”

Dolly was radiating excitement looking out the window at the large crowd waiting for Greg to step off the train, but Bertie was radiating something _very_ different, so Greg made a ‘one moment’ gesture, while he pulled out his phone, had a brief text exchange with his agent, made a ‘just one more moment’ gesture before moving off to find a train employee and engage in a mutually-satisfying transaction before returning to the Holmes’s.

      “This nice gentleman is happy to escort you to a less… hectic… exit of the train where our driver will meet you and show you to the car.”

Bertie’s relief was palpable, but he shook his head slightly and tapped his wife on the top of the head three times, which made her giggle.

      “The ‘you’ shall be ‘me’ as Dorothy certainly would prefer to exit in full view of the madding crowd.”

      “You’re my prince, Bertie Holmes.  A true and proper prince!  We’ll see you in the car, dear.  Take a moment and phone Sherlock to remind him we’re alive and expect him to visit.”

      “Sherlock and Doctor Watson were in our company until only five hours before we left for London.”

      “And?”

Realizing this was not going to be a conversation that would be either quick or productive, Bertie simply nodded and followed Greg’s bribe recipient to a far more placid and relaxing exit than Greg and Dolly were about to make.  Though Greg got a cheek pinch before any exiting could actually occur.

      “That was so kind of you, Greg.  Bertie would have been miserable in all of that.  Not me, though!  John said this was tremendous fun and I want my fair share of it.  So, what do we do?”

      “Basically what anybody would do but a lot slower.  I’ll have to spend time with my fans, but Anderson will keep me from getting captured for too long and he’ll make certain you get to the car when you’re tired of the hullabaloo.”

      “Alright.  Now, let’s see…”

Dolly ran her fingers through Greg’s hair to make it as roguish as possible, checked for smudges on his face, then tapped the pocket of his jacket and waited while he laughed and drew out his trademark sunglasses to wear, although the sun was only giving a weak showing for this time of the day.

      “There.  That’s the Greg Lestrade that makes all the ladies… and gents… go tingly.  On we go!”

Dolly threw on her own sunglasses, the same white, heart-shaped ones she’d worn when Greg first saw her on Friday evening, and stepped out of the train, taking a little step to the side so Greg could exit, then hopping up and down and clapping when the crowd erupted in cheers and shouts.

      “Welcome to my life, Dolly.”

      “It’s brilliant!  Look how happy you make everyone.  That’s a blessing, Greg, an absolute blessing.”

      “Some days.  It’s not so much of a blessing when I need a quick piss and this is between me and the nearest loo.”

Dolly laughed and swatted Greg on the arm, which she then took in hers to strut towards the crowd, stopping a short distance in front of Anderson who seemed to be mentally holding back the throng of excited people hoping to get a chance to talk to their film idol.

      “Ok, I’m done.  I had my little thrill and now it’s all you.  Bertie and me will be waiting in the car.  I’m sure there’s loads of nibbles, so don’t hurry on our account!”

Dolly started to move towards Anderson, but found her hand gently taken by Greg, who made a show of drawing her back towards him, taking her in his arms, giving her a spin, then dipping her like a ballroom dancer, to the loud approval of his fans.

      “There you go, Dolly.  A little something extra for your troubles.”

And with Anderson waving his mobile, there would be photos, possibly video footage, to commemorate the event.

      “My sweet son… he knows what makes a mother happy.”

Giggling like a schoolgirl, Dolly trotted forward towards Anderson, so motioned her to their uniformed driver, who was getting his second escort assignment for the day.  Watching her go, arm linked this time with her escort’s, Greg swallowed down the lump in his throat at how very, very lucky his Mycroft had been to have parents like Dolly and Bertie.  Admittedly, having a brother like Sherlock made up for it, but today was his day to look on the bright side of life.  And, speaking of the bright side, it’s opposite was slowly creeping out of the crowd…

      “Wiggins!  What are you doing here?  I thought vampires hated being out in the daytime.”

      “I’d say fuck you, but only the desperate want to fuck you and I have a girlfriend.”

      “No, you don’t.”

      “Ok, I don’t, but my imagination is vivid enough to count.  In any case, I’m working.  Ask him.”

Wiggins cocked a thumb towards Anderson who smiled his ‘Happy Fucking Surprise’ smile that made Greg begin thumbing through his mental file folder of revenge strategies which were quick and devastating to implement.

      “Between doing the photographs for Mycroft’s and Henry’s book, the snaps for his own book and skulking about not having a girlfriend, Wiggins has agreed to a job photo documenting the film.  Anthea is going to see what she can convince Mycroft to allow for his part, but even if it’s zero, this reprobate will chronicle the process up to and including publicity tours and awards ceremonies.  The stills can be included in info packs and strewn amongst the pigeons in the press but the tie-in possibility of a high-end ‘making of’ book is particularly sweet.”

      “And whose idea was this?”

Anderson whistled and rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet before shrugging in a way that wouldn’t convince a child that it was snack time even if he held a plate of biscuits in his hand.

      “Dunno.”

      “Wonderful.  My spidey sense tells me this is the outcome of another talent representative food orgy.”

      “We do love our food.”

      “I’ll deal with you later.  Right now, I have people who actually like me to deal with.”

Wiggins leapt into a clichéd photographer’s pose, camera at the ready, and Greg just sighed before slapping on a blinding grin, waving to the crowd and walking towards his fans for some contact time.  Hopefully, Dolly would leave a bit food and drink for him to indulge in once he made it to the car.  He suspected she would.  You don’t starve your sweet son, even if the studio did provide the highest caliber nibbles a person could buy and enough alcohol to pickle a ham…

__________

The highlight of the ride from the train station, perhaps the highlight of the month, was watching Wiggins’s naturally fetid personality scorch and blister under the intense glare of Dolly’s relentless sunlight until he was as polite and amenable as a surly teen boy when he was visiting his beloved grandmother.  By the time Bertie and Dolly had been deposited at Mycroft’s London house, Wiggins had agreed to the photo of Sherlock that Dolly wanted, as well as a family photo if and when she could persuade her sons to actually sit still in the same room long enough for a camera to capture their image.  Now that Wiggins, himself, had been tossed on the curb in front of his own residence, figuratively, though Greg had ardently argued for literally, the actor could turn attention to his agent who had, apparently, been up to no good behind his back.

      “And the usual legion of photographers the studio has on salary… they all on holiday?  Dead?”

      “No… but this is special.”

      “Not really.”

      “Yes really.  You know how we’ve talked about the diversity of niches this film could hit?”

      “Yeah?”

      “They’re being hit.  Admittedly, yours truly and Her Majesty are _ensuring_ they’re hit, but they’re also hitting themselves so all we really have to do is applaud their masochism and pass them an energy bar when they’re feeling a bit done in.  There’s a lot of self-sustaining and self-escalating buzz about the film and you know how hard that can be to achieve on our end.”

Greg did and the answer was miserably hard, which is why studios sank millions into publicity.  Which was, at best, a wager, because if it didn’t hit precisely the right notes, it would be cash flushed squarely down the toilet.

      “Beyond that, the film heavies are already interested and not in a small, off-hand way.  I’m fielding inquiries from the sorts of critics and writers that avoid you like the plague.  And, since the word’s out that Knight did an extensive interview with Mycroft, the assumption is that he’s happy with the film, not just accepting of it.  That… that carries weight in the upper stratosphere.  Of course, he could ultimately hate it, but his initial approval alone has got that level of audience and critic intrigued about what’s coming.  Those are precisely the sort who want not only the film itself, but the story of the it, so they can better evaluate its place film history.”

      “Um… we’re not even filming yet.  Isn’t that jumping the gun just a… lot?”

      “Doesn’t matter.  There’s enough meat on the bone from the players involved on our end, Mycroft’s participation, the book itself, the great murder-capturing event, etc. to have the thinkers seeing a pattern they like.  One that’s got them remembering other films that gave them the same feeling, had a similar pattern swirling about it.”

      “That’s… good.”

      “Yes.”

      “Or… catastrophically bad.”

      “Also yes.  The film fails to deliver and welcome to _Heaven’s Gate_.”

      “Oh god…”

      “You knew it was coming.”

      “Yeah, but I’ve been ignoring the ‘potentially humiliating me forever’ train of thought.  Or the ‘this will kill Mycroft deader than dead’ train.  It runs on a parallel track and is much tidier than mine.  Keeps to a tighter schedule, too.”

      “Well, here we are, and I’d say the impact potential of the film is exactly what we in our drunkest, most optimistic sputterings predicted.  Wiggins’s work would be marketable whether the film astounds or bombs, so it’s a smart play for him and Mycroft’s publisher alike.  The studio wouldn’t be particularly happy unless they could use something there to spin as the reason for the implosion, but… I honestly don’t see scorched earth ahead of us.”

      “And you didn’t bother to keep me abreast of all of this?”

      “And have you waggle and waffle?  No.  Besides… you had other things on your mind and, while this could be great news, your brain is wired to immediately jump to the shittiest conclusion possible.  You didn’t need that, so we sat on it.  Now, I can pull it from beneath my arse and throw it into your face without worrying it’s an evil thing to do.”

      “There’s nothing about your arse that isn’t evil.”

      “True.  In any case, I had a meeting this morning and…”

      “Yeah?”

      “Writing end is good to go.”

      “Really?

      “They’ve been moving fast but, to be honest, Mycroft’s novel lends itself well to screenplay conversion.  I saw the script breakdown about two weeks ago and, even with a couple of locations they’re still negotiating with, the initial budget was approved without much fuss.  I didn’t expect there to be, but it’s good to know nothing nasty is going to rear its ugly head on that end.”

      “That’s… quick.”

      “Not really.  The production schedule was fairly well outlined last week, though it may have to be modified if one of Firth’s prior commitments can’t be shifted.  It won’t change much, regardless, and likely won’t involve you to any significant degree.  This isn’t one of your normal behemoths, Greg, with loads of stunts, complex rigging, exotic locations and CGI.  This is a small film, in scale, so it’s coming together faster than you’re used to.”

      “Rehearsals?”

      “Table read next Tuesday with rehearsals starting Thursday.  I don’t think you’re needed until Friday, though, but that might change, so don’t carve it in stone.”

      “Glad I dove into dusting off my acting skills.  See what we can add in before rehearsals start, though.”

      “On it.  And piano coaching.”

      “Oh… got a bit of that, already.”

Mycroft working with him on the piano… Mycroft’s usual level of discomfort with casual proximity or contact quickly fell victim to the writer’s focus on a specific task and he’d proved a strict, but effective, instructor.  And those long fingers moving over the piano keys… pure poetry.  When they took a moment to move over his skin… that was the sort of poetry you kept locked away from eyes other than your own…

      “Knowing you, you need more, so I’ve already booked for that.  You’ve got some final fittings tomorrow, too, so don’t eat too much tonight and bloat yourself.  I’ve seen what they’re putting together, and it’ll look shit if you can scarcely button things over your belly.”

      “Any major changes from early ideas?”

      “No.  In any case, Anthea looked over it all a few days ago and tended to any little details that would send Mycroft loony.”

      “Oh, I bet Colleen adored that.  Woman has an Oscar but here’s a writer’s agent critiquing her work.”

      “Not critiquing, just looking for any explosive things that would mean absolutely nothing to anyone else but would plunge Mycroft into a tizzy.  The net sum of it all was a couple of ties taken out of contention, but they were waiting for you to wear full ensembles to make final decisions on those anyway, and the watch, which was going to be too gold for Mycroft to manage.  Everyone else’s selections passed muster, to Anthea’s eyes, so no problems on that front.  I’ll have Wiggins take some shots to send along Mycroft that should assuage any concerns he might have that Janine is going to be wearing an orange corset and heels ensemble and Colin will be in black leather with a red feathered boa.”

      “Didn’t she wear something like that in _Hot House Flowers_ for the seduce-then-kill the arms dealer scene?”

      “Uhhh… yeah.”

      “And you remembered it.  You sleaze.”

      “You did, too!”

      “You’re lucky you don’t even have a fake girlfriend, because she’d be very disappointed in you right now.”

      “Probably.  At least I can’t remember if Firth has worn a leather and boa combination.  That would be even sleazier.”

      “He’d rock it, though.”

      “Shit yeah.  That’s a man who can wear clothes.  It doesn’t matter what type they are.  He’s going to make you look like rubbish.”

      “That he will.  I won’t mind, though.  I recognize quality when I see it.”

      “Which is not in your mirror.”

      “No.  But even rough lads strike it lucky sometimes.”

      “You’re thinking about Mycroft, aren’t you?”

      “Yeah.  What gave it away?”

      “Ok, let me begin… the stupid smile, faraway look in your eye, raging erection…”

      “I’m not hard!”

      “Remember to mention it to the doctor at your upcoming physical.  They’ve got pills to help with that, now, and Mycroft will thank you for it.  Even if you aren’t as sexy as Colin Firth.”

      “Nobody’s that sexy.”

      “No, not a single solitary soul.  The truth hurts, but we must accept it anyway.”

      “Wanna watch _Kingsman_ tonight?”

      “I do now.”

      “I do, too.  We’re fanboys, Greg.”

      “And I’m alright with that.”

      “So am I.”


End file.
